


But The World Keeps Turning

by ghostnebula (gghostnebula)



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Beverly Marsh is a gift, Child Abuse, College, Cuddling & Snuggling, During the 27 Years (IT), Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak is a Mess, Eddie gets a skateboard, Eddie is trying to do this teenage rebellion thing, Fluff, Growing Up Together, High School, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, POV Alternating, Panic Attacks, Poisoning, Protective Richie Tozier, Recreational Drug Use, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Slow Burn, Superpowers, Telepathic Bond, Telepathic Bonds as a gift from the Cosmic Turtle, Telepathy, The Clubhouse (IT), The Hammock (IT), Track Star Eddie Kaspbrak, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, but make it DIY, conversion therapy, technically, the shine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2021-04-05
Packaged: 2021-04-17 10:48:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 42
Words: 194,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21714088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gghostnebula/pseuds/ghostnebula
Summary: He thinks about (and scares himself, for a second, with the potency of it) the way it feels when Richie drapes himself over him when they’re gathered at the quarry or the clubhouse. The way his chin rests on the top of Eddie’s head and his chest presses to his back and his stupid bony arms cross in front of him to hold him in place even though they both know Eddie isn’t going anywhere. How he wouldn’t give up that kind of contact with Richie for the world.Thesecurityof it.And how hadn’t he realized before?*The story of the Lucky Seven and theirterribleluck, a Turtle who doesn't quite understand humans, accidental telepathy, and Eddie Kaspbrak's many, many life struggles -- in the style of them all growing up, a little bit at a time, and what that entails.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 910
Kudos: 644
Collections: fic recs





	1. The revelation

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I think about the plot of one of those 'required reading' books from high school and I'm like, "Huh, was that fucked up or what?" and sometimes I think about them and I'm like, "Hey, you know what sounds like a cool AU? The kids all develop telepathic powers they can use to communicate with each other, like those kids in The Chrysalids. Would that be fucked up or what?"
> 
> And so, I present to you, this trainwreck.
> 
> *the kids talk about alcohol and drugs in this chapter, but no one actually uses any (they're kids!!!!)

* * *

July 1989

* * *

“I need to use your shower.”

“My, that’s very forward of you,” Richie says with a lascivious wink before he can think better of it. “I mean, I’ll have to check with your mom since she doesn’t really like to share me, but--”

“I’m serious. I need to use your fucking shower because if I go home like this _ my mom _ is going to drag me to the fucking hospital and-- and--” Eddie sucks in a wheezing breath, fumbling for an inhaler he doesn’t _ have _ \-- he tossed it into the overgrowth of weeds outside the house on Neibolt Street, along with the entire rest of his fanny pack, so it’s safe to assume they’ll never see it again unless they decide wading through poison ivy and stinging nettle sounds like a fun time. Richie doesn’t know how to help without it, so he just nods and pushes further into his personal space to capture his attention. 

“Okay. Yeah, you can use the shower, but don’t waste all the hot water, ‘cause I’m covered in sewer gunk, too.” He puts a hand on Eddie’s shoulder, turns him bodily, and marches them off in the direction of his house.

The rest of the Losers are supposed to meet him there once they’ve cleaned up, too. He doesn’t know what part of that bothers him -- leaves a little frantic knot in his gut. 

Or maybe he does, and he’s just too afraid to admit that this all feels like some kind of hallucination, like he’ll blink and find himself back in the sewers, fighting _ It _ again. He doesn’t _ want _ to feel like his friends aren’t safe, and he doesn’t _ want _ them out of his sight in case they’re _ wrong _ and It comes back and this time, the rest of them are too late to save their friend. 

So taking Eddie home with him eases that uncomfortable feeling of combined foreboding and overprotectiveness he couldn’t quite quell. Loosens the knot a little.

It’s unnaturally quiet between them for some time, all the way up Jackson Street -- they avoid Kansas and take the long way around to West Broadway without really mentioning it. The idea of being caught by Mrs. Kaspbrak terrifies Richie in ways he can’t quite make sense of, outside of his tentative understanding of Eddie’s desperation to avoid her. Bill’s house is quiet when they pass it; quieter, somehow, than the rest of the world around them. The shuttered silence bleeds mourning and Richie frowns, briefly considering stopping in to check on him, but a shared look with Eddie tells him they understand the same: Big Bill isn’t something vulnerable, and they’ve seen him torn open before the world too many times today already. He needs a moment’s peace, just to himself, where he doesn’t have to be strong for the rest of them. 

It’s funny, because the sun is warm and the day is beautiful and bright -- it’s a _ perfect _ summer day. A perfect day to screw around by the trainyard or take a dip in the public pool or lounge in Bassey Park eating rocket pops and making crude jokes, but it doesn’t _ feel _ that way. Richie is cold, from more than just the greywater soaking his clothes and squelching in his shoes. It’s _ funny _ that everything around him is warm and sunny and _ alive _ and he feels like ice is locking up his joints, making him shiver inside and out.

He doesn’t laugh.

“I might not be able to stay tonight,” Eddie says suddenly, once Bill’s bereft house is out of sight. His arms are folded tightly over his chest and he hunches into himself, sullen and filthy (Richie wisely opts not to mention the filth, because that’s the kind of thing that sets off an asthma attack and, well, if _ he’s _ feeling fragile right now then Eddie must be a ticking time bomb). “I’ve been-- I mean, like you said, my face is probably plastered all over milk cartons by now and we’ve been gone for who-knows-how-long and… and I fought with my mom before I left and she’s probably just gonna fucking kill me, actually. I’m a dead man.”

“Moms can’t kill their kids,” says Richie, aware of how direly unconvincing he sounds. “She’s just gonna be…” He trails off. Squints at Eddie, who doesn’t meet his gaze. He doesn’t actually _ know _ what she’ll do. Eddie isn’t fond of discussing his home life with them -- not even with Bill, his best and longest friend. Richie doesn’t know much about his friend’s mother except what he’s learned through a few brief interactions (she hates his guts) and Eddie’s unending mantra of, _ “My mom’s gonna kill me. My mom would be pissed. My mom is gonna be so mad.” _

She’s not the most pleasant person, Richie’s inferred, and like he said, they’re a little fragile right now, and Eddie doesn’t need that shit. Eddie doesn’t _ deserve _ that shit (not now, not ever). And he won’t be dealing with it today. Not if Richie has any say in the matter.

He shrugs. “Don’t go home, then. Easy.”

“I _ can’t--” _ Eddie blanches, makes a horrid little gasping noise but thankfully doesn’t work himself into a full-blown attack, because he doesn’t have his fucking inhaler and Richie doesn’t know fucking CPR or whatever-the-fuck. Eddie’s fingernails dig into the skin of his upper arm, just above the stained and battered cast, and he purses his lips. Scrunches his eyebrows. Tries to scowl at Richie with little success. “I can’t just not fucking go home, genius. She’ll be pissed.”

“Isn’t she already?”

“Huh?”

“Pissed? Isn’t she already gonna be pissed off at you? You’ve been gone for like, an entire day, apparently after having a _ fight _ with her, and now, after _ all that shit,” _ Richie gestures broadly behind them, in the general direction of the Neibolt House and the sewer pipe they just escaped through, “you’re just gonna waltz back into your house and let her tear you a new one?”

“I have to.”

“Like fuck you do.” They’ve stopped now, barely a block from Richie’s house, engaged in some kind of stand-off wherein Eddie looks like he can’t decide whether to bolt or pass out or clock Richie in the face. “We just went through hell together. All of us. And all of us are gonna _ stay _ together tonight. So, fuck no, you aren’t going home. Because I’m not an idiot, Eds. She’s not gonna let you leave the house again once you’re there. And she’ll probably take you to the hospital _ anyway, _ in case you managed to get hurt while you were gone or some shit.”

Eddie’s stormy brown eyes trace a path all around Richie and back again, like the right answers are hidden just over his shoulder. His expression is indiscernible but Richie doesn’t like the way it feels anyway. “She’ll be--”

“She’s already mad! She’s already fucking mad! We’ve established this.” Now he pushes into Eddie’s space again, plants both hands firmly on his shoulders, and nudges until his feet are moving. “And we’re just gonna putting off dealing with how mad she is as long as fucking possible.”

Eddie sucks in a deep breath that puffs out his chest, blowing it all out through his teeth. He un-scrunches his face, nods, and says, “Yeah. Fuck, _ yeah. _ Fuck going home. We almost _ died _ today. I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

“A-ha! I knew there was a little rebellion in you, Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie coos, facetiously wide-eyed and sincere.

Eddie snorts and shoves him with a, “Don’t call me that,” hands warm and caked with dirt -- Richie’s heart leaps but Eddie doesn’t mention the grime. Doesn’t work himself into a frenzy over it, at least, and Richie wonders briefly if that really _ is _ rebellion; the way tossing all his dozens of necessary medications away before entering the Well House had been an act of rebellion. Stupid, for sure, but rebellious in a way Edward “Yes, Mommy” Kaspbrak is assuredly _ not. _

Or maybe, like the rest of them, he’s too caught up in processing the events of the day to focus on the little things. Even for Eddie, surely, near-death by killer clown is a touch more significant than, say, sewer water on his skin.

Perhaps not, though, Richie thinks bitterly as he’s blasted with ice-cold water following Eddie’s hour-long shower, after which he’d emerged from the washroom looking scrubbed raw and red, in ways that were surely uncomfortable. A smile had lit his face when he’d spotted Richie, turning sheepish when Richie had pointed at the clock with one hand on his hip. 

“Greywater is _ full _ of bacteria,” he’d defended, and now Richie, hopeless fool that he must be, shivers and hops from foot to foot as he tries to clean himself to Eddie’s standards as fast as humanly possible. 

“I’m gonna fucking get you, Eds!” he shouts through chattering teeth. There’s a muffled reply from the other side of the door, equally loud and angry, that he can’t make out. “You’re lucky you’re cute!”

He still can’t quite hear whatever the fuck Eddie’s saying to him, but he carries on for several long seconds, high-pitched and fast-paced. All Richie catches is, _ “Don’t--” _ and some of the various expletives peppered throughout his rant.

“I’m dumping ice water on you in the morning,” he threatens as he throws the bathroom door open and stares Eddie down from across the hall, through his wide-open bedroom door. He’s leaning against the foot of Richie’s bed with an old Spider-Man comic in his hands, mischief lighting his eyes. The descending sun pouring in the window behind him illuminates the dust mites floating by and turns his hair a golden colour. Distantly, Richie thinks about how Eddie’s always pressing him to dust his goddamn room once in a while, or at least clean _ something, _ and how, wow, he should probably dust soon, _ haha. _ He frowns harder and twists his fingers into the towel tied around his waist. “Jerk.”

Eddie stares right back, clearly fighting a smile, the comic in his hands forgotten. “You wouldn’t.”

“Don’t test me, Eds. I’ll fuckin’ do it. That was torture.”

“Sorry,” he says insincerely. “Greywater is--”

“Full of bacteria, yeah, I heard. I’m covered in the shit, too, dude.”

“The… _ literal _ shit.” Eddie kind of screws up his face at that, and ducks down, out of the sunlight. For a second, Richie thinks he’s about to gag or something, and prepares to leap across the room and retrieve the old inhaler Eddie was planning to throw out from his desk drawer, but then a bark of laughter rings through the room. “Holy _ fuck, _ Rich, what the hell has been going on? Is any of this real?”

“As real as me and your mom’s--”

“Beep beep, Richie! Don’t even _ start _ with--”

“Healthy, loving, age-appropriate relationship. Get your mind out of the gutter, ya perv.” Satisfied that Eddie isn’t about to give himself an asthma attack over some germs, he strolls across the room to fish around in his closet, tossing a hideously bright shirt and a pair of denim shorts onto the bed. “We gotta set up the basement for everyone else. Can you start that while I get dressed?”

Eddie takes the time to replace the comic exactly where he retrieved it from the haphazard pile on the floor. Richie’s filing system may be senseless but it still exists, somehow.

“Eds,” Richie says before he can stop himself. 

Eddie pauses in the doorway. “Don’t call me that,” he tosses over his shoulder.

“It’s pretty real,” Richie continues anyway. “It’s real, but… I think we’re okay.”

And Eddie looks at him funny, like he knows Richie isn’t usually capable of being, like, genuinely reassuring (it’s true), and Richie’s big fucking mouth plows right on, “As okay as me and your mom’s sex life.” He thrusts his hips obscenely, tipping his head back to laugh at his obviously-hilarious joke, as Eddie heaves an enormous sigh and rolls his eyes.

“Just ‘okay’?” he asks with a raised eyebrow, when Richie stops humping the air. “I’m sorry to hear that.” Before Richie can form any sort of response, he’s disappearing down the hall.

_ “Damn, _ Spaghetti-man. Catch me off-guard, why dontcha,” he mutters to the empty room. 

Maggie Tozier walks in the front door, weighed down by overstuffed plastic grocery bags, just as Richie is descending the stairs into the foyer. “Oh, there you are, Richie. I was wondering where you’d disappeared to. Can you get these? I’ve got more in the car.”

She pushes the groceries into his arms and heads back outside. “Oh, yeah, yeah, sure, I got it, yeah. By the way, a sewer clown with weird magic powers tried to kill me today,” he calls after her, half-hoping she’ll hear.

Upon receiving no response, he dumps all the bags on the kitchen island, snags an armful of assorted junk food from the haul, and makes a break for the basement before she can catch him and force him to help put everything away.

“Eddie, I got the goods!” he shouts, footfalls raucous on the old-ass stairs. 

“The _ what?” _ Eddie’s head pops up from the other side of the couch, where he’s likely piling cushions on the floor in the typical fashion for Losers Club overnights -- though now, with more people, it’ll be a tight fit. _ “Richie, _ did you-- oh, you meant fucking Oreos.”

“Oh, Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie gasps, hand to his heart in mock disbelief, “did you think I meant _ drugs?” _

A throw pillow narrowly misses his head. “I thought you meant _ booze, _ jerkoff.”

“I can do that, too,” Richie assures him solemnly, already turning back towards the stairs.

“Do _ not! _ We are _ twelve _years old, Richie, what the fuck? That’s illegal, and _ definitely _ bad for us.”

_"I'm_ thirteen. And I think we’ve earned it,” he teases. “We killed a killer clown. We survived Bowers, somehow. You fought with your mom, which we should come back to, by the way. We managed to not die in the creepy, nasty-ass sewers. We might as well be grown-ups at this point.”

Eddie scrubs a hand over his eyes, through his hair (it dries all curly when he doesn’t put any product in it, and Richie’s always kind of loved that, he thinks), a world-weary sigh bursting out of him. “Please just bring the food and stop trying to break the law.”

Mrs. Tozier is the first on the scene when the doorbell rings almost an hour later, Richie and Eddie only halfway up the stairs. They distinctly hear Bev’s voice drift down from the foyer and Richie takes the rest of the steps two at a time, skidding into the hall to find a somewhat flushed, panting Bev chatting amiably with his mom in the doorway. Her bike tire is still spinning where she dumped it on the front lawn, silver flashes in the summer sun. 

“Hey, Richie,” she says, with a half-assed salute.

“I’m having some friends sleep over, mom,” Richie explains, and gets the usual shrug and, “Okay, hun. Have fun. Nice to officially meet you, Beverly.”

She disappears into the kitchen again without another word. 

“You look like you booked it here,” Eddie observes tactlessly, leaning against the door jamb as he watches her toe off her shoes and set them aside.

She shakes her head, fixing up her wild auburn curls as she stands again. “Didn’t want to spend any more time in that place than necessary.”

Eddie hums. Bev catches his eye. Richie thinks something passes between them and suddenly feels terribly excluded. He’s about to ask what the hell the silent conversation is about when Bev looks Eddie up and down and _ smirks, _ wide and amused. “What’s, uh, what’s going on there?”

Richie lent him his least-obnoxious, least-ugly (smallest) clothes, but they’re still obviously Richie’s. He cringes -- what does Bev _think_ is going on? They’re _barely_ teenagers. _Nothing_ is-- he _didn’t--_ Thank fucking _god_ she can’t read minds or something because he thinks he must short-circuit, and yeah, _maybe_ he missed Eddie so fucking bad the last couple weeks, when he was practically under house arrest, that he went half out of his mind and carved their initials on the Kissing Bridge in a fit of desperation. 

She doesn’t _ know _ about that, right? No one knows about that. Right? Those letters could mean anything. _ Anyone _ could have carved them.

But then Eddie speaks, and his panic grinds to a halt. “Didn’t want to spend any more time in that place than necessary,” he says, slow, turning the phrase over on his tongue as if he’s testing it out. Bev’s smirk falls away. She nods once.

Whatever exchange they were having ends just like that, and Eddie leads Bev down to the basement where they’ve set up all the works: movies, board games, video games, snacks of all sorts, the old pool table, the stereo system, the massive nest of blankets and cushions for everyone to lounge in.

“We’ll order a pizza once everyone’s here.” He fishes a notepad out of a cabinet by the dry bar and tosses it on the coffee table they’ve shoved aside to make space for the blanket nest. “Write down the toppings you want.”

“No one else is here yet?”

Richie shrugs. “Eds is here.”

“My name’s not fucking Eds, shit-nut,” Eddie snaps from where he’s situated himself in front of the VCR and is sifting through a stack of tapes. “Where the hell did you put _ The Breakfast Club?” _

“We’re not watching _ The _ fucking _ Breakfast Club. _ That’s Hannah’s dumb movie. We’re watching _ Top Gun, _ that’s why it’s the first in the pile, genius.”

“Oh, so I just have to deal with this alone. That’s great,” Bev says with false cheer, flopping back into the cushions with the notepad in her hand.

  
  


Everyone else arrives within about half an hour after that. Bev is visibly relieved when Ben and Stan appear at the top of the stairs (Stan makes a quip about her ‘surviving the ordeal’, to which she responds, “You have _ no _ idea,” with a disbelieving shake of her head). 

“Imagine knowing them since kindergarten,” he says, taking the pen and pad from Bev to jot down his pizza order before passing it to Ben. He has bandages wrapped carefully around his face, over the wounds left by the _thing_ It attacked him with, which is probably part of the reason he's so fucking late (so is Ben, to be fair).

“I’d rather not.”

“Oi, oi, oi! That’s a right rude thing to say, that is,” Richie complains, in the shitty Irish accent he’s been working on since May, shoving his glasses back in place from where they’re threatening to slip off his nose. He’s propped against the front of the couch, feet tangled in the comforters spread on the floor around him, already deeply absorbed in _ The Breakfast Club, _ while Eddie sips a can of Coke beside him and shuts off an alarm on his wristwatch.

There’s movement from the doorway and then footsteps on the stairs, but Richie’s attention has snapped to Eddie, who just goes back to watching the movie and drinking his pop. 

And, well, now that he has a moment to _ think _ about it… “You threw away your stupid fanny pack.”

“It’s not _ stupid, _ it’s practical, okay? It’s hands-free storage and it’s not as bulky as a backpack. It’s, like, _ ideal.” _ Eddie sticks his tongue out at him and turns back to the screen.

He doesn’t say anything about the medication and Richie isn’t sure he should push it. “Not everyone is as obsessed with keeping medical supplies handy as you, geez.”

“Preparedness is_ important. _Remember when you split your knee open on that rock at the quarry? If I wasn’t there with a first aid kit you would have gotten gangrene and had your leg amputated.”

Richie rolls his eyes and finds Bill hopping over the back of the couch to join them. He gestures exasperatedly to Eddie and Bill grins. “Be prepared,” he cheeks, flashing a Boy Scout sign.

“Traitor,” Richie grumbles, crossing his arms.

“You know, they used to put real cocaine in Coca-Cola,” Ben, apparently oblivious to the utter betrayal taking place across the room, says out of the blue as he rummages through the mini-fridge under the bar. 

Eddie chokes on the mouthful of Coke he was about to swallow. _ “What?” _

“Not _ anymore. _ But it used to be made with actual drugs in it.” Bev scoots over to make space for Ben, by Richie’s feet, and he passes the bowl of popcorn to her for her trouble. 

Eddie sets the Coke aside, somewhere on the floor.

Mike lands on Richie’s other side. “Pizza order’s ready.”

_ “Actual _ cocaine?” Richie asks incredulously, brain finally catching up. _ “Cocaína? _ ‘Say hello to my little friend’ cocaine? And they _ sold _ it?”

“Yes, Richie, the 1800s were a different--”

“Why the fuck did they stop?”

Stan heaves a world-weary sigh and snatches up the notepad. “I’ll call.”

Too invested in the absolute fuckery unfolding within his mind, Richie ignores him. “Can you imagine Tony Montana guarding a mountain of Coca-fucking-Cola? Holy shit.”

“Great, wuh-we broke Richie,” Bill chimes in from somewhere behind him, then he slips down into the nest beside Eddie. In the same second, Bev chuckles and glances at him over her shoulder with a, “The _ last _ thing you need is cocaine, Richie.”

“Where do you come across all this fascinating information, Haystack?” Richie asks playfully as he scoots forward to steal some popcorn for himself. 

“The library. That fancy building in the middle of town you’ve never seen the inside of,” Ben says with an astoundingly straight face.

“Yowza! Give as good as you get, huh?” Richie laughs, winking, and the smile Ben was fighting breaks through. He knew there was something he liked about New Kid besides the ounce of common sense they were so severely lacking before he came along.

Richie high-fives him and turns to offer some of his popcorn to Eddie.

Eddie, for his part, seems to snap out of whatever daze he was in. “Hey,” he says, then falls silent, Richie’s generous offer unacknowledged. Richie forgets about the cocaine and the popcorn, anyway, and squints down at him. His unfocused gaze is still fixed on the television screen, reflecting flickers of the film playing in the background of their shenanigans. “Have you guys ever heard of, uh, gazebos? No, no, plaz-- no, shit, do you know what I’m saying?”

“Like the canopy thing in peoples’ backyards?” Mike asks somewhere beside him.

Eddie shakes his head. Doesn’t look away from the T.V. “No, like, _ medicine, _ plazee--”

“Placebos?” Ben turns, now, face half-illuminated in the dimmed lights of the basement, frown playing at his lips. “Sugar pills?”

“Yes! Yes, that’s the word!” Eddie leaps forward, onto his hands and knees, pushing into Ben’s space, face alight with relief. “What are they? What do they do? Greta Keene says they’re fake.”

Clearly confused, Ben nods. “Yeah? They’re just sugar. They don’t do anything. They’re meant to trick people into thinking they’re being treated for something.”

And fuck if Richie has never seen Eddie’s face fall faster. “So she wasn’t lying?”

“Did… duh-did Greta Kuh-Keene tell you…?” Bill trails off, seemingly unsure how to finish that question.

Mike does it for him. “Did she tell you your medications were placebos?”

“Oh, shit.” Eddie sits back again, elbow bumping Richie’s arm. “I was right? She was right? How do I prove that?”

“Well… when was the last time you actually took your pills?” Ben asks, but Eddie is too busy wheezing to answer.

His breathing speeds up rapidly, and it feels like a split second before that familiar tea-kettle whistle blows past his lips and, sure, they just talked about his medicine being fake, but Richie’s natural instinct is to bolt upstairs, throw open the drawer of his desk, and fish out the spare aspirator.

There are some ways that he _ does _ like to be prepared, and as he’d said, _ “You could probably get a few more puffs of the good stuff out of it if you need it.” _

Lo and behold, this is one of the times they seem to need it.

Eddie hasn’t calmed down any by the time Richie gets back, cheeks flushing with the effort of trying to suck in a breath, but Bill had the sense to make the other Losers give him the space he needs to at least _ try. _ Richie presses the inhaler into his hand and brings it to his lips, and Eddie reflexively squeezes the trigger and breathes in deep. Does so a second time, and his eyes flutter open and land on Richie, still wide and scared. “She lied to me,” he gasps, then puts the inhaler to his mouth again. “Is that bad?”

Richie isn’t an expert on parenting. He’s thirteen. He _ knows, _ logically, that parents lie about things all the time. Santa Claus. The Tooth Fairy. What happened to the hamster. He knows sometimes parents lie to protect kids, too (see: what happened to the hamster). They lie about how terrible the world really is and what happens to the kids who disappear, one after another, all year long, and about their own relationship troubles and about money and the weather and _ all kinds of things. _

But too often Richie has passively observed as Eddie was forced to miss out on things because of his sickness, his constitution, his _ fragility, _ his lungs and heart and this and _ that, _ and it’s like ice water being dumped on his head to realize that might have all just been a ploy to-- to-- _ what? _ Keep him prisoner in his own home? This kind of lying doesn’t seem like it was really doing anything to protect him, because what was there to protect him from, if it was all made up?

It’s easier not to answer the question at all. 

“You okay?” he asks Eddie’s frightened eyes, and Eddie blinks, slow, still panting a bit, and glances down at the aspirator.

“But it’s fake,” he says, too quiet, and it sounds more like a question.

“I think the point of some placebos is to trick you into thinking you need it,” Ben muses. This does not seem to make Eddie feel better. 

Everyone is looking to Richie to fix things, he can _ sense _ it. It _ is _ his area of expertise, he supposes. 

“At least it’s not cocaine,” he offers lamely, and Eddie stares blankly for a couple seconds before snorting.

“I mean… _ yeah, I guess.” _

“Pizza will be here in twenty!” Stan calls, closing the basement door behind him on his way back down.

Richie gives Eddie his Game Boy to play with and that seems to placate him, but he hovers anyway. He has the inhaler, after all, crammed in the pocket of his shorts, because Eddie doesn’t have his fanny pack anymore and while Richie would love to be proud of him for standing up to his mom after she pulled shit like _ that, _ there’s also that little nagging worry that conjures up images of Eddie suffocating in his arms because what if, maybe, he really _ does _ need the inhaler, so _ just in case-- _

_ Alright, Boy Scout, cool it, _ he thinks, laughing quietly at himself and his hypocrisy.

*

The _ very _ first thought Richie has upon waking is, '_Fuck, man, I have to piss like a racehorse.' _Followed promptly by the realization that he’s so tangled in Losers who are dead to the world that he’s going to have to bomb-squad-stealth extract himself from this mess of limbs and bodies, unless he wants to disturb them at ass o’clock in the morning. The television is a flickering _ hum _ of saturated blue and static, the only light source, as he peels Bill’s arm off his calf.

And then he hears a snicker. _'Vulgar. No wonder everyone calls him Trashmouth,' _Bev is saying, in a soft, almost warbled way -- like the origin of the sound wasn’t quite right. 

His sleep-addled brain doesn’t process much of that, but he does twist around to look at Bev like she’s grown an extra head, expecting that she must be talking in her sleep, but her eyes are open, reflecting the blue-ish light from the T.V. eerily. She cracks a smile. 

“What?” Richie says, eloquently, and as quietly as he can manage, since everyone else is still asleep and what little he can see of the sky is barely greying with the light of dawn. 

_ “‘What’ _what?” she asks, equally quiet.

“Are you sleep-talking?”

“Are you sleep_-walking?” _

“Touché.”

“What are you doing?”

“I gotta piss.” Richie shrugs.

“You said that already. I mean why are you interrogating me about it?”

Behind Bev, Stan huffs in his sleep and rolls away from them. Richie’s still trying to wake the fuck up, but something isn’t adding up here and he’s really almost too tired to deal with it. And too desperate to take a leak. 

“Deal with what?” Bev asks, at the same time Richie says, “I never said that.”

“Wait, what?” they say, this time in unison. 

Richie’s mouth snaps shut and he wonders, with a jolt, if Bev just heard something he was _ thinking. _

And her eyes go wide. Like, dinner-plate wide. Like, popping out of her head _ wide. _ She sits bolt upright, definitely disturbing Mike and Stan this time, hand flying up to cover her mouth.

_ 'Am I dreaming?'_

“Am _I?_ What the _fuck?”_ Richie points at her and demands, “What colour am I thinking of right now?” And thinks as loudly and boisterously as he can form a _thought,_ _'Purple, purple, purple--'_

“Purple?”

“What the _ fuck?!” _ Richie says, with no pretense of attempting to stay quiet.

* * *


	2. The realization

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic is DESTINED to be a trainwreck

* * *

The rest of the Losers have officially been roused by Richie’s latest outburst, heads turning against pillows, eyes blinking open, Eddie muttering something into the blanket he’s cocooned himself in. 

_ ‘Oh, crap, what time is it?’ _ Mike’s voice cuts through Richie’s head next, languid (as usual) but harried nonetheless, as he pushes himself up and rubs his eyes. More than that, there’s a flash of an image in his mind that isn’t his own -- the sun peeking over the horizon, the silhouette of an obnoxious rooster crowing to announce a new day.

Richie makes eye contact with Bev and he knows without asking that she heard it, too. She _ saw _ it, too. His heartbeat picks up. Or does hers? Her fear is tangible, enough so that it leaks through whatever the fuck connection they’ve formed and into his own chest.

Or… was it his to begin with?

For a third time, though now in a helpless whisper, Richie asks, “What the fuck?”

In moments, the basement descends into chaos, but surely from an outsider’s perspective everything must seem -- relatively -- calm. 

Inside Richie’s head, though, is a different story. Everyone wakes up and it’s like channels opening up with each new thought process flooding through, until they’re overlapping and entangling and _ escalating, _ higher and higher, into confusion fear _ panic confusion bewilderment anxiety _ ** _stop!_ **

He presses his hands over his ears like that’ll do anything to mitigate the onslaught of thought-voices.

Then Bill’s voice, clear as day, rings through the basement, “Suh-stop! Everyone juh-just breathe. Be quiet.”

_ ‘I don’t know how to make my _ ** _literal_ ** _ thoughts be quiet, Big Bill!’ _ he thinks, and Bill shrugs, exasperation exploding outward from him.

“Nuh-neither do I. Just _ try.” _

Whatever everyone else does, works, because the frantic amalgamation of thought-voices tapers out into mostly background noise. He tries to chase them and finds them just comfortably out of reach, like blinds were drawn over their minds. Well, Mike’s and Bill’s, at least. Eddie’s ramblings are still pounding into his skull, albeit faded, and Bev’s repeating, _ “quiet, quiet, quiet,” _ to herself like that’ll help and between Stan and Ben there’s a lot of fluctuating in and out of focus, but whatever they’re trying is kind of, sort of working.

Richie’s head doesn’t hurt nearly as much, at least.

“Can _ anyone _ explain what is happening?” Mike asks, moving to stand beside Bill and peering out over the rest of the Losers still huddled on the floor. 

_ ‘Wouldn’t we be able to tell if someone knew, since we’re all in each other’s heads?’ _

_ ‘Richie, this is serious!’ _ Eddie snaps, without moving his mouth, and then looks _ extremely _ troubled. “I don’t like this.”

“Okay, we can hear each other’s thoughts, yeah. Why?”

There’s _ actual _ quiet after that. The _ buzz _ of other presences whittling away at the problem in the back of his head, yeah, but they’re all so concentrated on finding an answer that there’s a few moments of blissful silence while they do so. And then, almost simultaneously, that answer pops up seven times in his own mind with no discernible origin.

** _‘It.’_ **

“Shit. Yuh-yuh-you don’t think--”

_ ‘Deadlights, you guys, what did the deadlights--?’ _

_ ‘--don’t even know what _ ** _It_ ** _ really is--’ _

“Does that mean we killed It? For real?”

_ ‘And what? Absorbed some kind of weird telepathic powers from It?’ _

“How do we know,” Ben starts, tentative, eyes darting towards the stairs, “that we’re the only ones?”

“What do you mean?” Mike follows his gaze and tenses. “Oh.”

“Yeah. What if this is happening to everybody, and it has nothing to do with It?”

As if on cue, the door swings open and light floods down the stairs. “Richard!” Maggie Tozier sounds like she just woke up, and considering the hour she very well might have. But there’s nothing there, nothing he can _ quite _ pick up on from her that’s distinct from the rest of the Losers, but in his defense he doesn’t know what he’s _ looking _ for. Just that he can’t reach into her head the way he can with everyone else right now. “Mrs. Kaspbrak has been leaving messages since yesterday asking where the hell her son is. Is Eddie down there with you?” 

It’s like a shot of undiluted panic straight into his veins -- almost makes him keel over on the spot. He’d vomit if he could move at all, he thinks absently, and when he manages to look at Eddie he’s shaking his head frantically, pleading with Richie silently. The panic swells so big he fears he might burst, but he croaks out a, “No, mom, I haven’t seen him.”

“You should have invited him. I know how much you like that boy.” Richie barely stops himself from thinking, _ ‘Do you, though?’ _ too loudly, lest the others hear and _ suspect. _ “I like having him around,” she adds, then the door clicks shut, cutting them off from the rest of the world again. Richie shuffles forward on his knees just enough to put a hand on Eddie’s arm while he fumbles for the inhaler he’s pretty sure is still in his pocket, but Eddie shakes his head harder.

Whatever he’s thinking is barely contained behind the thin veil he’s managed to put up between their minds, but what he’s _ feeling _ is visceral and Richie doesn’t have to look to know it’s affecting the rest of them, too. _ ‘I told you we’d deal with it later,’ _ he assures, _ ‘Later doesn’t have to be now.’ _

_ ‘Can later be never?’ _ Eddie asks, half-joking, a haunted glaze over his eyes. The blanket he’s still bundled in is pulled tighter around him. 

Richie’s immense headache is worsened by the sensation of Bev’s thoughts surging forward into Eddie’s space, too, but oddly enough he can’t hear anything exchanged between them for the first few seconds and can only rely on the taut anger in Bev’s face and Eddie’s desperate little, “No!” for clues as to what the fuck is happening. 

_ ‘...not important right now! We need to figure out what the fuck is going on.’ _

Bev huffs but doesn’t push it.

“Someone should go up there to test it out,” Ben suggests. “Try to, I dunno, read her thoughts or something.”

“Or it could just be a thing that’s happening to kids. Maybe we can try Hannah,” Richie adds. If his mom is awake, then his sister probably is, too, since Maggie drives Hannah to her job at the little café up Main Street on her own way to work. 

“Okay.” Bev twists a lock of hair around her fingers. “Okay, that could work. Who’s going up?”

_ ‘Obviously not Eds,’ _ Richie thinks with a shrug, _ ‘since now he’s like, a fugitive.’ _

And whether it was Richie’s intention or not, Eddie cracks a little smile at that. 

Richie insists he had to piss _first._ There’s a washroom in the basement, fortunately. Then he drags Bill and Stan upstairs with him while the other Losers wait for news with bated breath. He can hear, even as he closes the basement door behind him, the soft chatter of all his friends passing through his head, the _‘Oh, there’s still pizza left,’_ from Mike and, _‘Eugh, that’s been sitting out all night in a warm room, it’s like a fuckin’ petri dish of-- what, Mike, _**_no,_** _ew, Mike _**_don’t--’_**

Hannah is sitting at the island with the latest edition of _ Tiger Beat _ in one hand, scarfing down cereal with the other. Maggie is bustling around the kitchen throwing sandwiches into paper bags and starting up the coffee pot, setting out mugs for herself and Wentworth, pausing before adding a third. 

Richie stares hard. Tries to figure out what’s passing through their heads. There’s… _ something, _ but it isn’t anything close to what he can pick up on from the Losers. In fact, he’s pretty sure he’s imagining the little flicker of resignation from his mom as she pours a cup of coffee for her teenage daughter, and the way Hannah’s limbs buzz with the exhaustion of being up way before her circadian rhythm would otherwise allow. _ ‘Hey! _ ** _Hey!_ ** _ Can you hear me? Hey! Hannah!’ _

“Mom, Richie’s creepy friends are staring at me,” Hannah complains loudly, barely looking up from her magazine and the article boldly proclaiming, **“What River Phoenix looks for in a woman - do you have what it takes?”**

“That’s nice, hun,” Maggie says cheerfully from somewhere in the recesses of the fridge. “Do you want a Jell-o cup in your lunch today?”

Hannah rolls her eyes and grunts, in true teenage fashion, something that might be affirmation. 

Richie grins when she catches his eye. “Heya. Had any good chucks lately?”

Hannah’s magazine sails across the room and nails him square in the face, falling open to a blown-up image of the man himself, River Phoenix, as it lands on the linoleum. “Fuck off with your weirdo friends, weirdo.”

A brown paper bag lands on the island in front of Hannah with her name scrawled across it in pink Sharpie, and Maggie hurries over to her son to take his face between her hands and plant a big, wet kiss on his forehead. Richie pretends to be grossed out, but sometimes the affection he gets from her is something he’s desperate for. He can try to save face, but the truth is he's almost grateful when his mom bundles him up in a hug while he acts like that’s _ just so embarrassing, mom, my friends are _ ** _right here._ **

** **“Your dad should be up soon, hun. Let him know the coffee is ready. And there’s some cash on the counter; I figured since I don’t have time to make everyone breakfast, you could take your friends out to Rosa’s for a bite.”

“Ugh, _ mom, _ do you really have to send them to my _ work? _ They’re fucking embarrassing. No one wants them there.”

Maggie gives a quiet laugh that only Richie hears, a sparkle in her eye. “Take it easy on your sister, though, would you?”

“Aye, aye, captain! I surely wouldn’t disappoint ya.” Richie salutes her _ very _ seriously, feels the burst of mirth and bemusement it creates, and ushers Bill and Stan back out of the kitchen.

“Bye, Mrs. Tozier. Have a good day!” Stan calls over his shoulder, while in the same moment Bill says, “See you later, Muh-Mrs. Tozier!”

Everyone already knows what’s coming the second they walk downstairs, and that’s a bit startling in and of itself, but also because it makes that mounting anxiety from before become just that much more prominent. _ If not anyone else, _ they seem to wonder collectively, _ then why us? _

And, _ If only _ ** _us,_ ** _ then surely (unfortunately) this must involve It somehow. _

Richie whistles. Rocks forward onto the balls of his feet, scanning the Losers assembled in his basement, in various states of unease that he can both see and _ feel. _ “So, breakfast, anyone?”

He tapes a note to the coffee maker that reads, _ “Father dearest, the caffeine-infused hot water you rely on for survival awaits! Enjoy your day ripping people’s teeth out of their gums in exchange for money. What a dream. -Warmest regards, your favourite son, Richard”, _ takes the wad of money from the counter and stuffs it into his pocket, and wheels his bike out of the garage to join his friends on the carefully-curated front lawn.

“Alrighty, chaps, away with us, then!” he hollers, throwing himself onto his bike and pedalling furiously away down the street while the Losers scramble to follow suit. 

“No, Rich, because it’s ridiculous. That’s just _ words. _ You can’t just throw random words together and expect them to make sense.” _ ‘And there’s nothing sexual about accounting, anyway.’ _

“That’s where you’re wrong. Math is always sexy. It’s, like, objectively, the _ sexiest _ subject. Right, Stan?”

“Please don’t drag me into this,” Stan begs, bringing down the kickstand of his bike in the alley behind Rosa’s while the rest of the Loser dump theirs unceremoniously in a heap by the wall. 

_ ‘How do you guys put up with this all the time?’ _ Bev asks without asking, flashing Richie a shit-eating grin that he returns tenfold. “Somehow it’s worse in your head, did you know that?”

“‘Course I do, Bevvy. It’s my own head for me to romp in, after all. Wait ‘til you uncover my porn sta--” Eddie claps a hand over Richie’s mouth but he still manages to project a deeply unsettling mental image to the lot of them, whether by accident or not he really can’t tell. 

The con to reading each other’s thoughts is that Eddie knows what Richie is planning to do a split second before he actually does it, so Eddie’s hand disappears and Richie’s tongue darts out to lick the empty air in front of him. _ ‘What, you don’t want my germs?’ _he teases, waggling his tongue, while Eddie goes bright red and spits like a furious cat. 

_ ‘--worse for you actually since you don’t even know _ ** _where_ ** _ my hand has been and really our hands are always _ ** _full_ ** _ of germs at any given time and--’ _

“Oh, I can only guess where it’s been. Only follow the whims of my wildest fantasies,” interrupts Richie in his atrocious Southern Belle voice, bending backwards melodramatically with a hand to his forehead.

Eddie gets redder, if possible, pushing him the rest of the way over while hissing, “Fuck you, that’s _ so _ gross,” as they tip over onto the asphalt together. 

“I think we have to undo this telekinesis thing or I’m gonna lose it,” Ben says decisively, and from where Eddie is trying to slap-fight him on the ground Richie bursts out laughing.

“It’s telepathy, dude. Telekinesis is moving stuff with your mind. _ Please _ read _ X-Men.” _

“Whatever it is, Ben’s right. I’m not even gonna make it through a day like this.” 

“Get used to it,” Stan tells Mike, already on his way around the side of the café to where the front door is propped open, exchanging the cool morning breeze for the mouth-watering scent of French toast and hot chocolate. “God knows the rest of us had to.”

And Bill laughs, a little bit inside his head and a little bit outwardly, thoughts reaching back to nudge Richie and Eddie and encourage them to follow the rest of them inside. Bill’s word is law, even when unspoken, so they haul each other to their feet and scurry after the Losers Club to take over a large booth nestled in the corner, right beside the enormous window. 

Something in the air turns once they’ve all settled in, solemnity and the severity of the situation they’ve found themselves in sinking in all at once. Richie, surprisingly, is the first to bring it up. “Yeah,” he says out loud, though in barely more than a whisper, “so, on the subject of comics…” He doesn’t have to finish, because everyone can already see the memories he’s conjuring up of comic panels wherein the heroes -- or anyone with some kind of power, really -- becomes a test subject, a guinea pig, a piece of research material with no autonomy. The kind of atrocities that they’re subjected to, poked and prodded at in government facilities.

_ ‘We get it!’ _ Mike cuts him off, looking decidedly ill. _ ‘That’s not going to happen to us, okay?’ _

“We can’t really guarantee that, Mike,” Ben says, softly, kicking their shared tension up a notch. “I mean, can we really hide this forever?”

“We can try.” Bev, as usual, is the picture of determination. Richie doesn’t have to be a mind-reader to _ know _ that her unfailing stubbornness is an asset to them in any situation. Maybe Ben isn’t the only one with common sense, here (though, Bev _ did _ take Richie up on his Chubby Bunny challenge last night and _ win, _ while Ben panicked and prepared to do the Heimlich, so… maybe it’s situationally dependent). “It’s not like we all sprouted antennae from our heads or grew wings, you know? It’s not like it’s _ obvious _ something’s different.” She tapers off into silence as Hannah approaches the table with her nose in the air, like the snobby seventeen-year-old she truly is. 

“What do you losers want?” she grumbles, whipping out a pad of paper from her apron pocket, and a little giggle ripples among them as they exchange a look. _ Losers, indeed. _And triumphant ones, at that.

Richie picks up and examines the drink menu while everyone else places their orders, and when Hannah rounds on him last, he grins and says, “I’ll have--”

“No, he won’t! No, you won’t. The last thing you need is fucking espresso. He’ll just have the pancakes.” Eddie kicks him under the table and, well, _ fine. _ Richie doesn’t protest because espresso truly has never agreed with him, anyway, but he kicks back and blows a raspberry at him.

Hannah curls her lip at them, eyebrow raised, and mumbles something about him being fucking whipped as she stalks off towards the kitchen. Richie’s face warms. 

Bill sighs, heavily, and leans forward into his hands, irritation rolling off of him in waves.. “You-- thuh-that’s exactly the kind o-of thing that-- _ ugh.” _

_ “That,” _ Stan continues for him, “is exactly the kind of thing that’s going to make it obvious.”

“Well, damn, _ sorry, _ but do you really want Richie hyped up on caffeine right now?” Eddie hisses back, leaning across the table towards him.

“I’d rather deal with _ that _ than being fucking vivisected in some secret underground lab!”

“Can we not talk about this?” Mike squeaks. There’s a bead of sweat rolling down the side of his face now. “Like, at all, but especially not out loud.”

Richie glances around. While the café is far from being packed, there _ are _ other patrons around, casting curious looks at the gaggle of teenagers kicking up a fuss in the corner booth. 

“Oh my god, we’re all guh-gonna fucking die,” Bill laments, face still hidden in his hands. _ ‘We’re all gonna die because not _ ** _one_ ** _ of us is capable of keeping our mouths shut.’ _

And, well, he’s not _ wrong._

* * *


	3. The "research"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed my mind. Bev still moves away (temporarily) but only because it makes our future suffering that much richer.

* * *

Yeah, so going to the comic shop was less for research purposes and mostly so he could use the leftover money from breakfast to buy himself and Eddie the latest editions of _ Black Panther _ and _ The Uncanny X-Men, _ respectively. But, on the other hand, at least they’ve created this beautiful opportunity to educate the less-fortunate Losers among them on the beauty of the _ Marvel _ universe and the exciting superpowers that come with it.

Like, for example, telepathy. Eddie’s sprawled out in the hammock, one leg dangling over the edge, as he loudly explains Charles Xavier’s power to the clubhouse at large, occasionally turning the comic over to show them all pictures, even though some of them are only half-listening. 

_ ‘But that’s just one person, who can read everyone else’s minds. We’re _ ** _seven_ ** _ different people who can read each other’s minds but nobody else’s. I don’t think it’s quite the same.’ _ Bev tosses the tennis ball she’s holding into the air and catches it on the way back down, taking up all of the fucking space on the ratty old couch they dragged down there. Richie’s perched on the back of it with his elbows on his knees, watching intently as Eddie swings in the hammock and makes a face at Bev.

_ ‘It’s not that we _ ** _totally_ ** _ can’t read their minds…’ _

Mike sighs in relief. _ ‘Oh, thank god. I thought I was the only one.’ _

“No, I can definitely tell what they’re feeling, sort of,” Richie pipes up, finally tearing his gaze from Eddie to gauge the reactions of the other Losers, like a puppy desperately seeking approval. He receives it, in a series of near-synchronized nods from his friends. 

_ ‘Just not what they’re _ ** _thinking. _ ** _ Not really.’ _

“So we’ve got, what… _ complete _ telepathy when it comes to each other but only partial with everyone else?” Ben twists that around in his brain for a hot second. “Is there a better word for that?”

“I dunno, Mr. Librarian, wouldn’t it be in your encyclopedia?”

** _‘Anyway,’_ ** Bill interrupts emphatically, _ ‘I think we can pretty much conclude that this is all just us and it isn’t the same kind of telepathy as from the X-Men. Even if we can _ ** _maybe_ ** _ tell how other people feel.’ _

_ ‘So now the new question is, how long will it last?’ _

All eyes turn to Stan. 

And, huh-- none of them really thought about it that way, up until this point. Is this, perhaps, merely a side-effect of exposure to some kind of, say, clown fumes? (Richie snorts loudly and there’s a collective rumble of exasperation that passes through them as they tune out his dumb fart joke). Is this because Bev saw into the deadlights and she’s become something of a conduit for the rest of them -- providing a power that binds them all together, concentrated around a single point? She rejects that idea outright. 

It isn’t just her, assuredly. They’d be able to tell.

Wouldn’t they?

And, even if they were correct, _ Stan _ has a point: what’s the expiration date of their newfound ability, _ if _ there is one?

And how are they supposed to know?

_ ‘Could just be the toxic sewage,’ _ Richie suggest offhand. _ ‘Or maybe the cistern was full of secret magic. Or _ ** _maybe,_ ** _ we were all bitten by radioactive spiders without noticing and now we’re all mutants _ ** _forever.’_ **

_ ‘Or at least for a couple of weeks,’ _ Mike interjects, to which Richie tips an invisible hat. 

“Right-o, good chap.”

There are a few more minutes of chatter passed between them, primarily silently (that’s still mind-boggling even though he’s starting to feel almost _ accustomed _ to it), wherein Eddie finishes his comic and starts on Richie’s, and Richie tries to find a casual way to weasel his way into the hammock, too (it isn’t casual; it’s loud and belligerent and nearly ends with both of them on the floor), and somewhere in there Bev and Mike discover that if the other party isn’t careful enough, they can use their brand new mind-reading abilities to cheat at checkers. Among other things.

The day passes by outside, high above them, while they raid their snack stash and someone breaks out the stupid fucking Pictionary game they’d crammed in the corner behind the ladder after their last Ridiculous Fight of the Decade (dubbed appropriately by Richie), and neither Richie nor Eddie move from the hammock even though they both acknowledge that it’ll be difficult to play like this. 

It’s strange -- how Richie’s always wished, even without necessarily realizing, that he could get into Eddie’s head. Just a glimpse into what makes him tick. And now he’s here, open and inviting before him, and there’s nothing surprising about it. There’s the exact amount of disgust he’d expect when he sneezes without covering his mouth and Eddie berates him for it. There’s the underlying thrum of anxiety about his mother and the addendum of worry that comes with doing something stupid like throwing away all your fucking medication you’re supposed to take, even if they were only fucking sugar pills. It’s all familiar, though, in a sense that he can’t quite tell where he ends and Eddie begins, and not just because Eddie’s got his legs tucked around Richie and an arm slung casually over his calf. Everywhere they’re in contact resonates a warmth that he isn’t able to pinpoint the origin of, not with certainty. 

And it lulls him, enticing and comforting all at once, with its familiarity. Like he and Eddie are on the same wavelength.

It seems that way with _ all _ of the Losers, now that there’s this open channel of communication with them that jerks everything into blinding clarity with ease. But it’s different, he’s sure, with Eddie. Perhaps because, whether he wants to admit it to himself or not, he’s consumed with a desire to _ touch _ when it comes to Eddie. Not in the way that the confusion and onslaught of hormones that come hand-in-hand with adolescence turn his every waking thought into something filthy, but rather in the quieter, more innocent way he tends to bowl him over with hugs on the school playground or hang all over him every time they saw each other. 

The way that, maybe for his whole entire life, Eddie’s just been something familiar to cling to. Maybe more than that. Maybe like the questioning look Eddie sends him and the jolt of panic in his system when he realizes that, while his thoughts may be closed off to the rest of them as much as he’s _ able _ to close them off, there’s still a big dopey smile on his face while he stares at Eddie and altogether forgets to participate in Pictionary.

He’s just sat there with a pencil his hand and his leg pressed up against Eddie, staring like an _ idiot. _

And it’s all warm, all passive yellows and the feeling of Eddie’s arm against his bare skin when he shakes his head and twists around to see what Mike is trying to draw, that sense of fulfillment in the bond like a crumbled dam between them, and even though Eddie isn’t looking he smiles again. 

It’s mind-boggling, and _ weird, _ and like some bullshit straight out of a comic book. It’s also _ right, _ and easy, and makes him feel like something that’s been missing for as long as he can remember has been returned to him. 

Yeah, he could get used to this.

* * *


	4. The gift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eddie's turn with the POV

* * *

Eddie is struggling, desperately, to keep his emotions in check. 

On the inside, when he’s trying to hide, it’s like pulling curtains shut over his own mind -- like he can _ physically _ sense the barrier he’s constructing to keep everyone out, one that _ just slightly _ muffles the things happening on the other side and blocks him from view altogether. But it doesn’t feel reliable, yet, and while he acknowledges that he’s only been dealing with this for about twelve hours now so he shouldn’t be an expert yet, the mounting fear of someone seeing too far into his head and getting a glimpse of something they _ shouldn’t _ is making that barrier fray faster than he’d like. His own anxiety is the wind blowing the damn fucking curtains open wide and his heart rate has been hovering at a steady _ tachycardic _ all fucking day.

What’s most frustrating is that Richie, who Eddie’s certain is the only other person who could understand the kind of chaos he knows is rattling around inside of his head, seems to be handling this _ fabulously. _ Everything Eddie has picked up on from him has been controlled as can be, clear as day -- pristine thoughts with some emotional undertones, and the occasional _ blip _ of outright silence as he draws his own blinds closed, for reasons Eddie doesn’t currently have the capacity to conspire about. Sure, it’s all very _ like _ him; run-on sentences and half-formed thoughts, but there’s no undercurrent of fear. It’s easy to hear. Easy to distinguish from the rest of the mess between the seven of them. He handles it all like it _ is _ easy and he has nothing to be afraid of.

This feels in direct contrast to whatever the fuck Eddie’s been accidentally spewing out since they woke up, which has mostly been _ feelings _ interpersed with garbled thoughts that even he is struggling to make sense of.

It’s just a _ lot. _ It’s just been _ so much _ over the last twenty-four hours or so, and it’s making him feel pulled taut and ready to snap. He thinks he’d love to go home and sleep but the _ last _ thing he wants is to go home. He thinks he’d like to be apart from everyone for a while so he can, say, scream into a pillow for fifteen minutes or curl up in a ball and cry himself to sleep (then wake up later and sort his shit out as best he can, maybe) but then Richie is turning his demands for a turn in the hammock almost immediately into an excuse to half-wrestle Eddie out of it, which they both know is going to (was intended to?) end with them both crammed into it with their legs tangled together. He doesn’t want to be apart anymore, suddenly. 

Funny how that works.

Richie’s controlled, steady stream of consciousness fades into background noise amongst the fluctuating current as the rest of their friends chat and share thought-shapes and test the boundaries of their abilities (Bill, unsurprisingly, is the one who jabs himself in the thigh with a pen and asks if anyone else felt it). But it’s there, and oddly comforting despite the fact that six other people are busy existing in roughly the same space, filling up Eddie’s head to bursting. It’s _ there -- _ Richie’s just _ there, _ which Eddie supposes he always has been, but then again, so have Bill and Stan. 

Maybe, he reasons, he and Richie are just sharing a wavelength the others exist outside of.

Maybe he’s just imagining it because he really likes when they sit like this and he’s deluding himself, finding things that aren’t there to excuse his behaviour. 

_ ‘I should head home. I promised my grandpa I’d be back by dinner,’ _ Mike tells the group at large, tinged with disappointment. None of them want to leave -- they can all sense it.

It reminds Eddie that he-- he’ll have to--

From several sides, a whole new question arises: What’s the range of this mind-reading thing? 

Thus far, every “normal” person they’ve interacted with has been hard to gauge any level of emotions from if they’re any more than a metre or so away. The Losers have barely left each other’s sides all day.

Who’s to say they won’t lose contact with Mike the moment he exits the clubhouse? Or once he’s left the Barrens?

They all just kind of stare at each other for a long moment, no answers forthcoming, until Mike shrugs and offers the kind of _ perfect _ reassuring smile that only Mike is capable of. “We’ll see what happens, okay? Can we meet back here tomorrow after lunch? Y’know, just in case I can’t ‘telepathically project’ that plan to you or something?” He laughs a little at his own humour and it echoes through the clubhouse.

_ ‘Yeah, of course,’ _ Bill says right away. _ ‘We’ll see you tomorrow.’ _

And then Mike’s gone and it’s another thing to add to the weight of nerves in his stomach -- how far will their connection stretch? -- on top the _ ‘fought an evil clown, went in the gross fucking sewers, mom’s going to be so angry, had a fight with her, she’s definitely going to kill me, I threw away all my medication, it was fake anyway, I don’t _ ** _want_ ** _ to go home, she’s going to be so so _ ** _ sososo_ ** _ mad, I won’t even see the sunrise tomorrow, I’m a dead man, holy fuck we can read each other’s minds, but that doesn’t matter because my mom lied to me my whole life and now I’m really in for it--’ _

He’d throw up but he hasn’t been able to eat much today, because those stupid nerves prick like a cactus, white-hot and twisting around, digging into his appetite and making his stomach clench uncomfortably. 

And the fact that he’s now worrying about giving himself an ulcer is certainly not fucking helping. 

They listen. All of them. Intently. Wait for Mike’s presence in their minds to fade away, chase the little glimpses of Mike’s path home, fingers crossed that the next one will come, until he’s out of the trees altogether and pedalling up the road toward the Hanlon farm. By the time the farmhouse comes into view and the thought-pictures Mike is sending them are still coming through clear as day, they’re all grinning wildly along to his excited babble of, _ ‘Can you still hear me? I can still hear you.’ _

Even Eddie, worked up as he is about his life spiralling out of control so fast, is swept up in his enthusiasm -- his joy at having this connection to his friends that can hold steady no matter the distance. 

And it is nice! It’s great, sure! But this whole “reading minds” thing _ has _ to come with consequences. There _ has _ to be secrets they’ll all struggle to keep. There could be… _ things, _ he frets, that might ruin friendships if they’re out in the open. 

He doesn’t think he should want his inhaler because he _ knows _ he doesn’t need it; it’s nothing, just a -- what was it? 

A _ placebo, _ just like the rest, meant to trick him into _ thinking _ he was sick, into _ believing _ he needed it. 

Fuck, did it ever accomplish that. 

He tries to draw that veil around his emotions tighter to conceal his mounting anger at his situation, but he’s hardly successful. Richie looks at him funny, anyway, but Eddie just zeroes in on Mike’s joy that still washes over them, comfortable, and stretches his legs out to prop his feet on Richie’s shoulders, wiggling his toes and nudging the side of Richie’s head.

“Your feet still smell like sewer,” Richie bitches, swatting at his ankles half-heartedly. 

“Your _ breath _ smells like sewer.”

Richie leans forward just enough to blow a hot puff of air right in Eddie’s face. “That’s from eating out your mother,” he says, just before he gets a knee to the stomach.

This, at least, eases some of the discomfort prickling in his gut, because it’s easy and familiar and he can stop thinking about everything else going awry for _ just one second. _ “That’s fucking disgusting,” Eddie snaps as Richie melodramatically clutches his stomach and groans. 

Bev stands from her place on the couch and stretches, thoughts carefully concealed from the rest of them. She lingers there a moment. Sighs.

“I gotta go, too. I have stuff to take care of.” 

They all give their goodbyes, their “see you soon”s -- their hugs and playful shoves and the shower cap Richie flicks after her as she ascends the ladder, insisting she not let them lose track of her (if Mike was easy to maintain a connection with, though, they’re hoping they’re in the clear).

Her departure is the catalyst for all the rest of them to start clearing out. Bill leaves next, then Ben, and Eddie’s clinging to the curtains for dear life, trying to hold them closed, trying to keep his heartbeat at a reasonable pace -- _ trying _ not to think about the consequences of his actions.

He slowly, _ slowly _ pushes himself out of the hammock, mumbling something about going home that he doesn’t quite hear, himself. Richie and Stan, the two remaining Losers, follow him out, help push the door back into place. They part ways at Kansas Street, Stan turning his bike towards the heart of town, and at Eddie’s house, just up the block, he’s quick to urge Richie to hurry up and get home safe, quaking in his shoes. 

He doesn’t want him to be around to witness whatever the fuck is going to happen.

The door looms dark and heavy ahead of him as he trudges up the steps on the front porch. He’s careful. Careful to keep whatever he’s feeling _ flat _ and _ undetectable. _ Keep the blinds drawn. Keep everyone else out of his head.

It feels like his ribs are breaking when she hugs him, _ Jeopardy _ playing abandoned in the background now that her dear baby boy is _ home, _ oh how she _ worried. _ Her worry _ shows _ in the way she squeezes squeezes _ squeezes _ until he’s gasping but he can’t tell her it hurts because he knows he’s in so much trouble, anyway. 

And then comes the, “Don’t you ever do that again, do you hear me?” The bruising grip on his arm as he’s dragged into the washroom and stripped down and given a thorough check, because she _ clearly can’t trust him to tell the truth after what he pulled. _

Isn’t she the liar, though?

He doesn’t know what it is that makes her fluctuate so quickly between sickening, overbearing concern and rabid anger. He’s learned to hope for the concern to last. “I’m sorry, mommy,” he says again and again, because that’s what appeases her. She likes “mommy”. She likes when he shows affection. She’s nicer when he acts like he appreciates her.

It isn’t as if he _doesn’t_ \-- he just doesn’t _appreciate_ moments like these, standing stark-naked in the middle of the cold bathroom, openly examined, pinched and prodded. Reprimanded for the grime on his cast, _the risk of a rash, an infection; think of all the bacteria teeming inside that thing, trapped in a damp, warm space right against your skin -- you have skin sensitivities,_ _you know,_ on and on and on, until it culminates in the usual punishment.

To the hospital. Try to get a new cast. Poked with needles (he fucking hates needles but she hates it when he cries about them). Unnecessary tests. Doctors and nurses visibly frustrated with her and her relentless presence -- and, now that It has somehow cursed the Losers with this weird new telepathy thing, their frustration thrums through him, too, harsh and mounting, until it twists up inside of him and he snaps at her to _ just take me home. _

Oops.

He doesn’t need to eat to “maintain his immune system” if he’s going to stay in his room this week, she reasons, and the lock on the other side of the door clicks.

  
  


*

  
  


_ The turtle sways like it’s drifting on an ocean current. _

Its eyes are closed.

Eddie feels like he’s floating. 

The expanse of nothingness around him is impossible. Not light or dark. Not warm or cold. Just nothing. It doesn’t sit right, but he knows that’s how it should be.

_ ‘Am I dreaming?’ _ he thinks in a voice that isn’t his own. The same voice answers back, _ ‘I must be.’ _

**_ It is a gift_**

_ ‘Sorry, what?’ _

The body isn’t his own, either, he realizes, when he tries to find the source of the voice but can’t quite move. He’s stuck facing the turtle. The voice seemed to come from all around him. 

**_The power_**

** _It's a gift, kid_**

Something buzzes under his skin. More voices. Not his own. None of it is his. He’s just occupying a space -- a time -- for a fleeting moment. They ring through his head, too, but they’re indecipherable in spite of their familiarity. Too close. Too entangled.

Too many questions contained within one consciousness. Too many minds contained in one body.

The turtle opens its eyes. A gasp dies in his throat.

The voices taper off into the same nothing he’s suspended in.

Entire galaxies stare back at him. Stars burning bright. A universe confined to an impossibly small space.

The turtle, he realizes abruptly -- though he feels stupid for not noticing before -- is much larger than any turtle should be.

_**Use it wisely**_

*

He sucks in a lungful of air like he’s been drowning, throwing himself upright and nearly toppling to the floor in his haste to escape the oppressive weight of his dream.

All at once, six other blips of consciousness melt into his headspace, all equally confused and frightened.

He doesn’t have to ask to know they saw it, too.

* * *


	5. Acclimatization

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to post a new chapter every week but the temptation to just publish everything I have finished already is starting to get overwhelming. But in the meantime expect a new chapter maybe every weekend (hopefully).  
This one is short. Sorry.

* * *

August 1989

* * *

It’s almost surprising how quickly Eddie becomes accustomed to this whole… _ thing. _

Although, the perpetuity of the issue certainly helps things along. It’s hard _ not _ to become accustomed to it when the stream of information is _ constant _ and, dare he say, comforting.

“Comforting” in that when he’s trapped in his room like this, he isn’t bored and lonely like usual. Well, a little bit bored, since he’s already read through his comic collection twice and none of the novels on the shelf have been able to hold his attention. But with six people chattering away in his head, he’s far from lonely, as nice as it would be to _ physically _ be with them.

The unrelenting boredom of being held prisoner in his own home (for crimes related to disappearing for upwards of two days, so it’s probably reasonable) has, however, given him the opportunity to explore the many facets of his newfound ability. And, of course, to pay enough attention to his friends’ thoughts that he’s picked up on all of the little quirks and traits that distinguish them from each other.

Like the way Bev’s passive thought process is almost exclusively _ words _ \-- very few images, and rarely any detectable emotion -- that flow smooth and steady. How when any of them laugh it echoes in their heads and it’s hard to prevent. How Mike rarely thinks in pictures but when he does it’s _ vivid, _ carefully crafted and full of detail, unlike how most of their thought-pictures turn out murky on the other side of the bond.

How, when Ben isn’t actively trying to participate in a conversation, the part of Eddie’s mind that picks up on his thought process catches _ all _ images -- less detailed than Mike’s, sure, but better than all the rest of them. And how easy it is to ascertain meaning from them even without accompanying words.

How Richie’s passive thoughts are always just words on words on words, running circles around each other, leaving half-finished ideas all over the place, all underlaid with poorly-concealed emotion that bleeds through in ways he hasn’t quite felt from the other Losers. It’s hard to follow but easy to hear. How Richie’s _ awful _ at hiding those thoughts from the rest of them sometimes, but when he’s successful, the silence is heavy in the wake of his presence. 

And the music. Jesus H. Christ; the fucking _ music. _ Richie doesn’t go five seconds without some song or another -- or _ several at once _ \-- playing in his head. And if he isn’t _ thinking _ about music, he’s _ listening _ to it. 

Like at 3 a.m. on a Wednesday, while the rest of the world is doing the sane thing and _ sleeping. _ But they sure aren’t, because Richie’s been wearing out his favourite _ Wham! _ tape, and he isn’t exactly being quiet about it. Eddie lies awake, staring at the ceiling, aware of the other Losers and their inability to sleep, rattling around in the back of his head. He senses Stan’s mounting irritation and tries to extend sympathy towards him, but just gets exhaustion back.

_‘Richie,_ **_please_**_ go to sleep,’ _Bill begs for them all, and Eddie snorts when Richie breaks off in the middle of singing along to _Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go _\-- definitely in his head, but likely out loud, too. Despite the fact that it is, of course, ass o’clock in the morning and he’s _totally_ angry at Richie for his shitty and highly-entertaining rendition of arguably one of the best songs ever.

Totally.

_ ‘It’s summer, you guys. Live a little.’ _

_ ‘Some of us have lives,’ _ Stan retorts quickly. _ ‘Some of us wake up at a reasonable hour.’ _

Eddie can _ feel _ Richie shrug. _ ‘Guess you’ll all have to adjust to my schedule.’ _

All in the same heartbeat, there’s a chorus of, _ ‘Richie, go the fuck to sleep,’ _ from four or five of them, then a tidal wave of amusement at their own synchronization -- then Stan, being the crochety old man that he is, demanding quiet so he can please, _ please _ just sleep.

The echo of silence left behind by the rest of them.

_ ‘You like my performance, though, right, Eds?’ _Richie asks imploringly, in the privacy of the space that only exists between the two of them, so as not to disturb the other Losers.

_ ‘It’s terrible. Go to sleep.’ _ But he can’t keep his amusement covered up like this and Richie catches on easily. 

_ ‘Guess I’ll just have to try harder, then.’ _

_ ‘Please, don’t.’ _

Richie plays his tape again, louder, and sings along with more heart this time. The accidental appreciation for Richie’s antics ricochets back at him across the bond -- he doesn’t know what he’d do without Richie around to act like a dumbass for his entertainment.

Sulk, probably. Be bored shitless, maybe.

_ Sleep, _ definitely, but where’s the fun in that?

It’s summer, after all, even if only for a short while longer. And it’s not as if he has any plans for tomorrow besides “house arrest” and having the new pills his mom bought forced down his throat.

He eyes the shadowed silhouette of the new fanny pack his mom hung on the foot of his bed a few nights ago, and adamantly refuses to let it bother him.

* * *


	6. The bike tires

* * *

September 1989

* * *

Bev moving away has to be one of the absolute _ worst _ things to ever happen to them, and, like -- that’s taking the fucking clown into account.

It’s as if someone has yanked a support pillar out from underneath them, right in time for the start of the school year.

Which is a situation made infinitely worse by the fact that what’s left of the Bowers gang still runs amok and they've got some kind of vendetta against the Losers now. Enough to go out of their way to follow them around until they catch one of them off guard.

Their _ only _ saving grace is that this _ connection _ that the Turtle gave them -- the Turtle they’ve all dreamed about several times now -- extends as far as they need it to. Bev is present with them 24/7 even without being present at all. She’s a well of advice and reassurances when they need her to be. Even all the way from Portland.

It’s a place where, she’s surprised to inform them, everything just _ feels _ different. Everyone maybe acts a little different -- less distant. Less flippant. Ben is quick to agree: people in Derry, adults especially, are just _ strange. _ Like they’re under the influence of something that burrows into their brains and makes reality harder to parse.

_ Clown, _ they all conclude at pretty much the same time.

_ ‘Toxic clown fumes, I’m telling you guys,’ _ Richie insists. 

They have Bev with them in their heads, sure, but there’s a gaping wound where she should be _ physically. _ The empty spot on the couch in the clubhouse and the absence of a warm arm slung over Eddie’s back where they pile onto the floor in Richie’s basement for sleepovers on Saturday nights. A distinct lack of wild auburn hair looming over his shoulder while Ben runs a little homework club in the library after school.

No one to throw a punch for him when Reginald fucking Huggins grabs him by the hair and slams his face into a locker when he goes back for the math textbook he forgot. There’s a flash of concern from her, extending from Portland to shitty little Derry, where he slumps to the floor and cradles his bleeding nose in his hands and Belch spits something about Patrick Hockstetter as he shuffles off down the hall before anyone can catch him in the act. The concern sparks across five other headspaces and Eddie realizes he let the shock and the hurt pour out too much.

_ ‘Fine. Fine. I’m fine,’ _ he insists through a thin veneer of attempted fortitude, even as his friends demand to know what just happened.

Richie and Stan are already outside the school by the time he’s stumbling towards where he dumped his bike by the front entrance. Of _ course _ they are. Eddie told them he forgot his textbook and he’d meet them at the library -- of course they knew exactly where to find him.

And, stupidly, they’d let him go alone. Somehow, with all that stuff involving killer clowns and Henry Bowers finally fucking snapping, they’d forgotten that other, smaller threats still linger in the place they’re loathe to call home. 

Richie’s thoughts have long stopped being a cyclical stream of words and have descended into a garbled chaos as he pries Eddie’s hands away from his face, the sound of the thoughts tapping along to his erratic heartbeat that Eddie can _ feel. _ Stan, infinitely more collected, smooths out the sentence for him.

“Who was it?” he asks aloud -- a rarity for them, nowadays. He’s eyeing Eddie’s bike where it’s tipped over onto the grass and a grimace works its way onto his face. 

“Belch,” Eddie replies thickly through the blood clogging his nostrils. He winces at the shudder of pain that travels through his whole face. _ ‘I didn’t see him coming. He said something about Hockstetter and what we did to him. We didn’t do anything to him.’ _The sentence ends more like a question. He doesn’t recall having anything to do with Hockstetter’s disappearance, but the events of the summer are all so jumbled together that he can’t quite pick apart what was real and what wasn’t -- what happened for sure and what he might be forgetting.

That’s probably for the best, though. 

_ ‘We didn’t,’ _ Richie confirms for him. _ ‘Belch is just fucking nuts. They all are. That’s why Bowers ended up in the loony bin.’ _ “Are you okay to ride your bike? Should you go home instead?”

Eddie’s stomach lurches at the idea of going home like this. At the way he knows his mother will react. He doesn’t want to be kept home from school for days on end with some made-up, bullshit excuse about how _ deathly ill _ he’s suddenly become and how he needs to be coddled and school is _ just too much for him. _ Doesn’t need to deal with the lectures about his _ terrible, awful, dirty, dangerous _ friends and how bad of an influence they are. How much better off he is just staying home with mommy all the time. 

Fucking _ spare him. _

_ ‘Library,’ _ is the only coherent thought he’s able to spit out, and Stan’s frown deepens.

_ ‘I think we’ll have to walk,’ _ he announces solemnly, and only then does Eddie notice his bike tires are in _ shreds. _

_ ‘Fucking Vic,’ _ he and Richie think at the same time, and for as devastated as he’s suddenly feeling about everything happening in this moment, a little smile tugs at his lips (and, yeah, that fucking hurts, so what). Vic’s the only one with the wit and wile to do something like this, and they both know it.

He doesn’t want to pry Richie’s hands off of him but he has to. Has to pick up his bike and lamely attempt to wheel it away towards the library, even as the ruined tires swerve wildly and catch on the pavement, making the task all that much more difficult.

The frustration bursts up out of him like fireworks after only a few steps and Richie materializes in his personal space, all weirdly reassuring and calm. _ ‘Let’s take it to your house.’ _

Eddie nods. He doesn’t protest when Richie’s hands close around the handlebars. He’s too overwhelmed for that. His face is throbbing and there are still tears pricking his eyes, and fresh blood drips off his chin to ruin his shirt -- no way this isn’t going to bruise like a motherfucker, so his mom will almost _ definitely _ notice, which is _ bad bad bad… _

Yeah: he lets Richie take his bike and opts to walk Richie’s instead, and for as much as Stan loves to roll his eyes and sigh at them every time they’re together, he’s pretty dead-set on accompanying them back to Eddie’s house, with a pit-stop at Richie’s on the way to scrub the blood off and change into one of Richie’s old band t-shirts. It’s less obvious this way, he hopes, even as he shoves a wad of tissues up his nose to stem the slight dribble of blood that’s still running down to his chin.

His mother’s car isn’t parked out front, which is probably a good sign. Stan’s already shoving open the garage door before he can put Richie’s bike down, and they both have to help him clear the frame of the soapbox he started back in May from the empty space in the middle of the floor. All the while, the other Losers remind them of their existence with little flitting questions passing through their heads, but everyone already has a pretty good idea of what exactly took place by this point.

He drags the toolkit out from under what used to be his dad’s workbench and sets about removing the tires from his bike, grateful beyond belief that they’ve got a couple of spares lying around in the heap of junk that takes up most of the garage.

And sure, they’re not a great fit -- one’s a bit bigger than the other, not quite noticeable once they’re both on the bike, but Richie still cracks jokes about penny-farthings in his bad British accent, mimicking adjusting a monocle as he curtsies repeatedly and Eddie insists that he please, _ please _ just let him focus. He doesn’t want the fucking tires falling off his bike while he’s riding it. Does Richie _ want _ him to break his arm again?

“Oh, my, not so chipper today, are we now?” Richie frowns dramatically, tracing the path of a single tear down his cheek, and Eddie thanks the weird turtle-god they’ve all gotten to know that he hasn’t figured out a way to get his Voices to carry over into their thought-space.

Yet.

And, Maturin-willing, he _ won’t. _

* * *


	7. The moral conundrum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some of the Losers use their powers for good. Some for evil.
> 
> Just kidding:
> 
> Some of them use telepathy to cheat in school and some of them are against the practice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm literally just doing whatever I want for now but shit is going to go downhill fast once I really get this ball rolling. Brace yourselves for a lot of hurt and a little bit of comfort down the road.

* * *

October 1989

* * *

_ ‘This is definitely not the intended purpose,’ _ Stan says, for the millionth time, as Richie bombards Eddie with answers to his math test in full range of the rest of the Losers. Bev’s laughter rings clear and true from far away and Eddie finds himself smiling down at his test paper as Richie tells Stan to _ mind his own _ and Stan retorts by reminding Richie to _ keep the cheating on the down low, maybe. _

After all, if they’re going to be graced (or cursed, depending who you ask and when) with Maturin’s own little version of telepathy -- the “shine”, he had called it at one point, but none of them quite understand what that means -- why not take advantage of the situation? Polynomials are confusing and Richie is smart without trying. What is there to lose?

Yeah, so _ maybe _ his academic (and moral) integrity will be a _ little bit _ compromised. 

But it’s not as if anyone will ever _ know. _

They have the wealth of all of their combined knowledge cradled in this “shine” they’ve developed. Of _ course _ they should use it. It was a _ gift. _

Was this the “intended purpose”? Unlikely.

Maturin had said something to them, in the third and final dream he’d visited them in, about It making them “forget”. About how linking them together in mind and soul could prevent that. That’s probably all he intended -- stopping Pennywise from making them forget about… something. By, y’know, creating a super cool telepathic bond, the likes of which Eddie has only ever seen in comic books before.

The Turtle also said something about supporting the tower of the universe on his shell and a _ something _ named Gan, and they’re also not wholly convinced that those dreams have any real meaning (sure, they _ feel _ meaningful, but Richie tried pot for the first time last month and dreamt about a peanut butter river full of multicoloured otters, which had also felt pretty significant when he managed to accidentally project it to literally everyone). 

So, they’re maybe taking this whole “intended purpose” thing lightly.

Again: if he has the ability, he might as well fucking _ use _ it. He’ll consider it payment for having Richie’s constant stream of passive thought ringing through his brain at all hours of the day. 

_ ‘Butt out, Staniel.’ _

_ ‘Then stop including the rest of us?’ _

_ ‘But I love you and I want you to feel included.’ _ Richie’s fake pout is nearly tangible like this.

Eddie tries _ very _ hard not to laugh at his desk, lest he have to explain to his teacher why the fuck he’s _ laughing _ in the middle of suffering through a slew of questions about polynomials, which is arguably one of the worst subjects ever.

_ ‘Well, don’t.’ _

_ ‘I’m trying to focus over here, you know,’ _ Eddie finally interrupts, still staring down at the question he’s stuck on, though infinitely less frustrated now. 

Stan goes back to whatever he’s doing (history, Eddie is pretty sure, if the quiet flickers of information leaking through from Stan’s end are any indication.

While this telepathy deal is great for cheating, it’s also pretty distracting, especially when the other Losers neglect to block themselves out completely. It leaves little openings like these for things to get out into their shared mind-space.

He realizes he’s thinking about the first World War while Richie explains the process of solving for _ x _ or whatever the fuck, and right now this feels a little more like a curse. Or, _ he’s _ not thinking about the first World War, _ Stan _ is, but Stan’s also quite intentionally tuning them out and is focused on taking notes rather than listening to Eddie’s mounting panic about failing math class and having to live in a cardboard box in some filthy back alley in some disease-ridden city full of rats that probably carry the plague or _ fucking whatever _.

_ ‘It’s fifteen! Fuck, dude, it’s fifteen. You’re supposed to show your work, but I guess that’s not the important part,’ _ Richie relents.

There’s Bev again -- feeling sorry for him, nudging at Stan to _ keep it contained, _ which he’s actually better at than most of them on any given day. It’s just that none of them are _ perfect _ at it.

Bev wishes she was here with them; wishes Derry was a little more like Portland so the idea of moving back forever didn’t suck so much. Like the only benefit to coming back at all is the Losers Club (isn’t it, though?) even though she _ wants _ to. Plans to.

Misses them all desperately.

And it isn’t quite what Eddie needs right now, while the clock counts down the last few minutes of class, but he appreciates it nonetheless. Appreciates that Bev loves them all, misses them all, even after such a short period of time spent together.

Feels how they all miss _ her _ and all the different ways the Losers (who aren’t actively avoiding this distraction) express that.

Maybe fighting an evil clown together just _ does _ that. Pushes a group of otherwise random kids together and creates bonds that run deep -- some that extend all the way into their own minds -- and will last a lifetime.

The bell rings.

Eddie’s test is gone from his desk before he can so much as blink, and he groans as he gathers his belongings and heads out to their usual meeting spot in the courtyard. 

_ ‘You didn’t fail. You did really good for most of it!’ _ Ben tries to assure him.

_ ‘And you only missed a few questions,’ _ Bill adds.

_ ‘Doesn’t take the cardboard box idea off the table completely, though,’ _ Richie says, with his usual amount of tact.

“Oh, fuck you,” Eddie says, out loud by mistake, but the thought takes shape and finds its way to the rest of the Losers anyway. Someone looks at him odd as he passes through the doorway and he grimaces.

Oops.

It’s not that the biggest concern for any of them right now is people figuring out about the telepathy. No one in a million years would look at their scraggly group of misfits and their strange behaviours and guess that telepathy was even, like, _ remotely _ in the range of possibility. 

But they are a group of misfits who behave strangely, largely on accident (and, thankfully, with decreasing frequency), and “loony bin” is always a viable option for any one of them. 

Eddie smiles vaguely at the strange kid, pushes his backpack higher up his shoulder -- prays they assume he was just talking to someone in passing while the rough seams bite at his fingers, curled around the strap. 

_ ‘I’d like to formally announce, maybe for the thousandth time--’ _

Eddie interrupts Bev to say, _ ‘Yes, I know, that talking out loud is probably not the best idea. My bad.’ _

Ben’s already channeling glimpses of the sun over the courtyard, probably without really meaning to, accustomed to the conversation they’ve had at least once a week since school started up a few months ago. This time, with the picture comes the uncertain chill in the air as autumn creeps in. That’s from Richie, he’s pretty sure, but they all feel it just as well. 

The rest of the Losers are all perched on one of the worn-down picnic tables by the time he gets outside. Bill’s the one who claps him on the shoulder and reminds him how well he did on the test, even without Richie’s interventions.

Richie takes offense to that, bringing up much the same points as Eddie -- if they have the ability, why not make the most of it?

Mike, for his part (he’s joined them for lunch even though he doesn’t attend school with them, because he can and because he wants to), tries to reason that there’s always the possibility that one day, they might_ not _ have the shine anymore, and they won’t be able to rely on reading each other’s minds to know the answers to things.

But no one really wants to hear that shit. Even after barely two months of living in each other’s heads, they’ve all become too attached to this thing they were so afraid of at first. Too accustomed to the presence of six other people in their own minds.

Like they’d probably _ lose it _ if that just _ disappeared _ one day.

Yeah, Eddie doesn’t really want to think about it. He doesn’t know how the fuck he didn’t lose his mind _ before, _ spending weeks on end cooped up in his room, no one to talk to and nothing to do. Or working himself into a frenzy over minor things like touching bubblegum on a park bench or someone breathing too close to his face, without someone to talk him down, no matter the time or the place or what company he was keeping, if any. 

And now, with things like Bev being separated from them, and their last year before high school taking a toll on all of them already, and the remnants of the Bowers gang -- lost and confused though they all seem without the two people who held them together around anymore -- stalking around town searching for someone to blame for their tragic losses.

A group of hapless losers make for pretty good scapegoats, apparently.

No, they’d prefer to just bask in the naivety of believing this can and will last forever, because the alternatives are difficult to bear. 

Plus, Eddie allows himself, a little selfishly, he’s let himself grow all too fond of the many small, private conversations he can have with each of his friends even when all of them are together. Of late-night chats while everyone else sleeps, often with Richie, about nothing and everything all at once -- missing Bev; the way the Bowers gang is trying so hard to target them; how_ It _ still manages to affect their daily lives; what they’ll do once they’re free from Derry. Free from their parents, Eddie thinks, and then feels guilty because Richie’s parents really aren’t that bad, just inattentive sometimes, but Richie _ loves _ attention and so obviously craves it from them most of all.

And, he adds retroactively, to his own private pool of thoughts the Losers are not allowed to overhear, his mom isn’t that bad, either. She just cares about him. She just wants him to be safe. She’s just striving for any means available to keep him safe and healthy -- she just gets it wrong sometimes.

He tells himself that all evening, while she reminds him that he belongs to her and holds a hand over his mouth to force the pills down, because _ clearly she can’t trust him to do it himself. _

“If you truly loved me, Eddie-Bear, you wouldn’t do these things to me,” she says through tears, shaking her pudgy head. “You wouldn’t _ make me _ have to do these things. Why can’t you just be a _ good _ boy and stay away from those other dirty kids?”

She goes on and on and on, her self-pity interspersed with reminders that she birthed him, nursed him, clothed and fed him, cared for him while he was ill as a child and continues to help him live with the aftermath to this day, and he owes her _ so much. _ That he doesn’t ever act like he’s grateful anymore.

And she’s _ right. _ She did do all of those things. Eddie’s pretty sure the pills don’t actually do anything -- _ pretty _ sure they’re sugar pills and he isn’t… really… actually.... sick?

He’s not too sure anymore, looking into her eyes while fat tears dribble from them and she strokes his face so much more gently than she usually handles him. His throat burns a little from dry-swallowing the meds.

“I’m sorry, mommy,” he says, and he tries to mean it. 

* * *


	8. Halloween

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I totally satisfied with this chapter? No.  
Am I posting it anyway? Absolutely.

* * *

_ ‘Fucking shit fucking _ ** _ouch_ ** _ fucker--’ _ There’s a bright burst of pain right between Eddie’s eyes and he barely stops himself from reacting. He’s _ sure _ he must have flinched, but a cursory glance around at his listless classmates tells him no one noticed. A moment later, a second, smaller spot of pain lights up around his mouth.

_ ‘Richie? Are you okay?’ _ he asks at the same time six other voices chime in with multiple variations of the same question.

_ ‘Peachy,’ _ comes Richie’s sarcasm-ridden reply. _ ‘No worse than getting kicked in the nuts, right?’ _

They don’t have to ask to know what just happened. This is a consequence of being alone -- sometimes they don’t have a choice, and they just have to accept that risk.

At least Vic, Belch, & co. don’t carry around knives or try to literally murder them with rocks. Among other things.

They’re just _ lost, _ and they’re angry, and they need an outlet. And while Eddie can, almost, respect that, he _ knows _ this isn’t the right way.

How would he react if any of the Losers had disappeared or been killed during It’s reign of terror? Would he lash out the way Henry and Patrick’s friends are?

But, then again -- had they truly been friends in the first place?

It felt more like a command system fuelled by a healthy dose of fear.

“Can I be excused?” he’s saying to his teacher, not fully aware of having stood up and approached her desk. The tape they’re watching about cellular division drones on somewhere behind him, doing nothing to hold the attention of the room full of teenagers.

She nods. Gestures to the hall pass hanging at the side of the blackboard and doesn’t take her eyes off her book.

He’s off down the hall before she can change her mind, racing through the school even though it’s absolutely against the rules. Like some kind of homing beacon, he finds Richie before he actually has any idea where to _ expect _ to find him. 

Propped against a locker, gangling legs stretched out in front of him, holding the broken pieces of his glasses in his hands. A trickle of blood drips down from a gash on the bridge of his nose, then a second on his eyebrow. It’s purpling already, but thankfully, unlike Eddie’s misfortune a few weeks ago, he doesn’t have a massive nosebleed.

As if he can sense his proximity (he’s blind as all fuck without his glasses, which are all but shattered and snapped clean in half to boot), he turns in the general direction from which Eddie’s approaching and smiles through a swelling lip. _ ‘Hiya, Eds. Fancy seeing you here.’ _

“What the hell, Rich?” Eddie snaps in lieu of a proper greeting. _ ‘What the _ ** _hell_ ** _ are you doing wandering around alone when you know for a _ ** _fact_ ** _ that Moose has been on a fucking manhunt all week?’ _

_ ‘Hey, don’t be presumptuous. This was _ ** _all_ ** _ Belch.’ _ Richie gestures emphatically to his bloodied face and Eddie has to suck in a deep breath through his nose so he doesn’t yell at him. He doesn’t bother asking what the fuck Reginald was doing sneaking around their school -- he’s _ certain _ none of those bigger boys ever bother going to class, so of course they’d find their way into the junior high in the free time they make for themselves.

Eddie unzips his fanny pack and he’s overwhelmed with the same kind of desperately confused resentment (which is a lot to unpack in and of itself) that Richie always feels when his attention is drawn to it.

The _ ‘I thought you threw that away’ _ and _ ‘Isn’t all that shit fake?’ _ and, like, _ maybe -- _ Eddie’s not so sure anymore. Especially not after that brief period of time last month he tried to stop taking them again just to _ see, _ just to _ make sure _ Greta had been telling the truth about them being placebos or whatever-the-fuck, and he’d been glued to the toilet when he wasn’t confined to his bed.

He started feeling better as soon as he started taking them again, but maybe that didn’t mean anything. Maybe it was all a coincidence. In his head, he slams the door between him and Richie shut and turns his back on it. This isn’t what he wants to think about right now. This isn’t what he wants to think about _ ever, _ but Richie keeps bringing it up because he’s relentless like that.

Richie pouts at him while he pops open the little first aid kit he keeps handy and uses an alcohol wipe to clean the little cut on his nose; it’s not deep, and not very big overall, but head wounds are notorious for excessive bleeding. “Hold this here,” he insists, pressing a piece of gauze to the wound. Richie complies, and Eddie digs fruitlessly around in the tiny first aid kit for something to help with his fat lip -- a cold pack or _ something _. “You’re shit outta luck,” he says, eventually, when the whole contents of the fanny pack have been dumped on the floor. 

“Sure am.” Richie grins crookedly (more so than usual, probably because of the fat lip). “Can’t see jack shit _ and _ I’m all swollen up like some kinda unfortunate balloon. That’s some unlucky shit for sure.” 

Eddie scowls and the _ ‘Don’t even start with balloons’ _ goes unspoken between them. Bev, somewhere in his head, is asking if Richie’s all right, and he tries to project reassurance to the group at large. The door he’s closed between him and Richie opens a crack.

_ ‘Walk me home?’ _

_ ‘It’s the middle of the school day.’ _

Richie, even though Eddie is probably nothing more than a fuzzy blob to him, manages to look him dead in the eyes with an expression that _ screams _ exasperation. _ ‘Sure is. And there’s not much learning I can do with busted glasses. Therefore…?’ _

“Alright, fine! Fine.” Eddie starts cramming pill bottles and gauze packets back into his fanny pack. “You’re fucking lucky I put up with you, you know.”

And Richie smiles all big and crooked and his breath catches in his throat even though Richie looks like _ hell _ right now. “I know you love me, Eds.”

“You _ know _ you’re going to look like shit when we go trick-or-treating tonight, right?” he counters, taking Richie by the arm and helping him to his feet. He tosses the hall pass somewhere off to the side. Perhaps someone will find it later and return it to his science teacher.

Probably not.

Eddie’s heart drops a little, but he’s pretty sure that was actually Richie. Things get a little too tangled up between them, sometimes, until it’s hard to distinguish. “Well, fucksticks. Think I could pull off a Freddy Krueger instead? Maybe a little Scarface, if that’s too much effort.” The broken remnants of his glasses are crammed into the pockets of his jeans.

_ ‘The scar’s in the wrong spot, genius.’ _

Richie gasps. “Uh-oh, Spaghetti! You don’t think it’ll actually scar, do you? That would be _ so _ un-sexy.”

“I think you’re a drama queen.” Eddie quietly steers him away from the ‘wet floor’ sign he’s about to trip over. 

“Do you think women find men with face scars more or less attractive?”

“I think that no woman will ever find you attractive, scar or no scar.”

“Yeowch! Eddie Spaghetti gets off a good one.”

Eddie shoves and swats at him the whole way out of the school and to the bike rack, and Richie reciprocates easily and with a huge grin on his face. He doesn’t let things like getting his face beat on by any of Henry Bowers’ ex-friends faze him -- Eddie should probably take a page from his book. He _ tries _ not to let it get to him, but he knows that kind of _ panic-hurt-fear _ always slips through the cracks even when he wants to conceal it from the Losers. 

Richie’s emotions, as they flow through their connection, are crystal-clear content with barely a trace of negativity. So what if Belch punched him? It’s nothing he hasn’t dealt with before. Hell, Bowers always tried worse.

What’s a split-second of pain, really?

He _ wishes _ he could be that nonchalant about everything.

Instead, the fear of consequences is a steady _ buzz _ just under the surface of his skin as they walk their bikes in the direction of Richie’s house. Skipping school is… well, it’s got to be high on the list of major offences that will definitely send his mom flying off the handle. Up there with ‘not taking his pills’ and ‘traipsing through the sewers’ and ‘disappearing for hours on end with no warning’.

Hopefully not as high as ‘picking a fight with her.’ That one’s proven itself to have a nasty outcome. 

There’s the off-chance she won’t notice. That maybe the school won’t call her when he doesn’t show up for his next class. 

His breathing is doing a tea-kettle whistle by the time they’re wheeling their bikes up Richie’s driveway, and he can all but _ feel _ Richie prodding at the barrier he’s put up to keep everyone out of his head. 

He doesn’t _ like _ this -- this overwhelmed, stormy feeling that bubbles up through his whole body and triggers the asthma attacks he thought were fake (could’ve _ sworn _ were fake) and tries to wrench open the door and let it all flood out to where his friends reside in his mind. That makes his skin crawl and his head pound and his breath _ wheeze _ and rattle. 

He doesn’t like being afraid of everything, all the time.

_ Eddie-Bear, _ his mom often tells him, _ it’s good to be afraid. That’s how you stay safe; by keeping away from all the things that scare you. _

Funny, because sometimes his mom _ is _ one of those things.

Mostly, though, it’s the whole world and then some.

He’s faintly aware of Richie’s quip about him “reaching the boil” -- and, shit; he’s supposed to be _ helping _ Richie. He’s doing his God-honest best, but he’s not getting enough air.

“If you’d be so kind as to escort me to my room, good sir, I do believe I have a spare aspirator for you.” Richie holds an arm out to him, bent at the elbow, and Eddie grasps it and chokes on air all the way up the front steps. Through the empty foyer, lungs burning burning _burning,_ upstairs and into Richie’s room and Richie only trips once the whole time, which is something of an achievement. 

_ ‘I’m sorry Belch hit you,’ _ is all he can think to say when he’s directed to sit on the bed and Richie is pushing an inhaler into his hands. _ ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t do anything about it.’ _

“He hit you, too.”

Eddie sucks in a few lungfuls of shitty-tasting medicine and shakes his head. “Yeah, he hits all of us. They all do.” His voice quakes and he tries the inhaler again. “I’m just sorry it happened when we were all so close by.”

There’s silence -- a whole lot of nothing from Richie (a skill he’s mastered, ironically) and the usual background noise from the rest of the Losers.

_ ‘Will your parents be mad about your glasses?’ _ he tacks on, when Richie settles onto the desk chair. 

Richie shrugs, pulling the unfortunate remains out of his pocket and dumping them on the disaster adorning the surface of his desk. _ ‘Eh. Probably not. These were getting pretty old, anyway.’ _

_ ‘You don’t have a spare pair?’ _

_ ‘Bowers broke them last April, remember? When he pushed me off the bridge.’ _

Eddie doesn’t _ want _ to remember, because what he _ remembers _ is the visceral fear of seeing Richie in free-fall, of being helpless from his position halfway across the park grounds -- he could never run fast enough to reach them in time, no matter how many people insist he’s the fastest sprinter they’ve ever seen. He remembers wondering which thing would kill Richie: the impact with the water? Would he break his neck on the bottom of the canal, if the water were too shallow? Would he drown? Drowning is an awful way to go, he’d heard.

The _ crunch _ of coke-bottle glasses shattering under Bowers’ foot seemed secondary to all of that, as he skidded to a halt at the edge of the canal, fearful of the hidden diseases in the murky water, and Bill blew past him without hesitation, straight to Richie’s rescue.

_ ‘...Tape?’ _ Eddie suggests, fighting _ all of that _ down, lest he add a fireworks display of guilt and fear to the bond between the Losers that has probably seen enough for today. 

Richie grins at him, shoving his overgrown hair out of his eyes, like _ that’s _ what’s preventing him from seeing. _ ‘Guess it wouldn’t hurt to try.’ _

  
  


Hannah is going to be _ pissed _ that they used her flat iron, but it is _ so _ worth it. Eddie makes a point of snapping a few pictures of Richie before they leave the house, so he can capture evidence of his masterpiece in some good lighting. 

He didn’t go home after skipping school today (except to linger on the edge of the property as Richie snuck in his window and secreted his Halloween costume out of the closet for him -- they went straight back to Richie’s after, half-running and laughing a little hysterically about the “sneaking around”). It’s a little bold of him. The longer he stays here, the less he thinks about what awaits him at home -- but that’s probably the excited chatter of his six friends rattling around inside his skull.

_ ‘This is probably going to be one of the last years we can go trick-or-treating,’ _ Ben is telling them all solemnly, while there’s a general scramble amongst all of them to get costumes and make-up done, dig pillowcases out of the linen closet, _ find better footwear than those wildly impractical boots. _

Bill’s amused aggravation at the costume _ he volunteered to wear _ is prominent, while Bev begs them to, _ ‘Please, please, _ ** _please_ ** _ take lots of pictures,’ _ because she doesn’t want to miss out on this even if she can’t be here with them. Eddie hangs Wentworth’s camera around his neck and nudges Richie out the door.

There are glimpses from their friends as they make their way to Bill’s house, of their costumes (all the other Losers are matching today, including Bev) and the crowds of kids wandering the streets. The setting sun.

Porch lights flickering on up and down the streets while they all make their way Bill’s house.

The two of them are the first at Bill’s front door, Richie belting out a screechy rendition of “trick or treat, smell my feet” while he viciously attacks the doorbell. Bill throws the door open just as he thinks loudly, _ ‘You’re lucky my parents aren’t home, Richie.’ _

They both pause, and take each other in. Richie and Eddie’s attempt at styling Richie’s hair, the vibrant face paint leaving smudges on the frames of his shoddily-taped-together glasses. The missing glass over one eye (his depth perception is shit; he tripped twice on the way here). The fat lip. The half-thrifted, half-sewn (thanks to Eddie) outfit. 

And Bill. In a skirt. That’s the best part. Never mind the uncharacteristic messiness of his hair, or the overall bagginess of his clothes, or the fact that Eddie’s pretty sure he’s smudged eyeliner or something around his eyes. The skirt is what Richie zeroes in on.

They burst out laughing in unison and fall into a hug that’s mostly interrupted with giggle-fits. “You look fucking ridiculous, dude,” Richie quips, and Bill smiles bigger and shoves his shoulder.

_ ‘I could say the same for you.’ _

Then Bill is pulling Eddie into a hug and complimenting all the hard work he put into the bright yellow jacket he’s wearing, and the little moustache Richie drew on with magic marker. _ ‘Don’t blame me for whatever is happening here. Blame Richie,’ _ he tells him, pointing at the atrocity on his upper lip. 

_ ‘Breakfast Club incoming,’ _ Mike announces, and they can _ tell _ that everyone is on the move right now -- most of them almost at Bill’s house. 

Bill hikes the messenger bag he’ll be using to trick-or-treat over his shoulder and sets a bowl of candy on the front step. _ ‘I’ve got our musicians ready to go.’ _

_ ‘You know it, babe.’ _ Richie winks and twirls the fake plastic microphone he’s carrying a few times. 

Everyone converges on Bill’s front lawn and Bill poses with the rest of the Breakfast Club for a picture. Mike’s had to include a long-sleeved shirt under his tank top to combat the chill of the late October air, and Stan’s wearing a jacket that obscures most of his costume, but Bev’s delighted by the whole affair regardless.

_ ‘This was a fantastic idea. I asked Aunt Eleanor to take a picture of my costume for you guys. We can put them together next time we see each other.’ _

And she has to remind them that they also need pictures of Eddie’s Freddie Mercury costume, which leads to him and Richie posing under the light on some stranger’s front porch, pretending to sing into the microphone (Richie actually _ does _ sing; _ Under Pressure _ \-- it sounds awful, as usual). This, followed by several pictures of them goofing off in the semi-darkness and laughing, Richie’s face paint smearing across his nose when Eddie shoves him away after he tries to lick his cheek, and the big wet mark on Richie’s back when he slips in the damp grass on their way back up to the street. 

Ben doesn’t give the camera back to Eddie for quite some time. By then, their bags are full to the point of dragging on the sidewalk and Richie is starting to complain about how uncomfortable his boots are, and _ how the fuck does David Bowie live like this? _

It’s passed around the room once they’re back at Bill’s, dumping out their candy and bartering with each other. Stan snaps a picture of Richie trying on the jacket Eddie made, and Mike gets Bill to smile with a mouthful of half-chewed caramel, and there’s a beautiful candid in there somewhere of Eddie laughing so hard at a joke Richie made that pop shoots out of his nose, which burns like all fucking hell, but they won’t get to see how it turned out until they get the film developed.

Eddie solemnly swears to burn it _ (‘Just like that burned your nostrils, Eds?’) _ while Mike switches out a handful of Kit Kats for all of Eddie’s Reese’s Pieces.

Richie hoards all the candy cigarettes and they just let him, mostly because those taste like garbage and a little bit because it’s better than the real thing.

When he and Richie go down to the store to develop the film a few weeks later, they make enough copies of everything for all seven Losers.

* * *


	9. The start of the teen years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie's birthday!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this early because I likely won't have Internet access this weekend. Enjoy.

* * *

November 1989

* * *

Normally, the majority of the Losers would sleep in as long as they could, even on a weekday. They are, most of them, growing teenagers who need as much sleep as they can get, and even Stan can’t complain about everyone’s tendency to oversleep when he’s in the middle of an intense growth spurt.

It’s in Eddie’s plans, too, but apparently not Richie’s. 

No, of course not -- Eddie’s woken around seven o’clock in the morning to knocking on his window and finds Richie waving to him, crouched on the low roof that shelters the back porch, grinning and radiating excitement. _ ‘Guess what today is?’ _

Eddie doesn’t have to guess. It’s November third, after all. Richie must think he’s stupid. _ ‘It’s my birthday, obviously. Why the fuck are you at my house?’ _

_ ‘Open the window and find out.’ _

He really, _ really _ doesn’t know why he relents and unlocks the window for Richie to crawl through, but he presses a finger to his lips and reminds Richie to _ please be quiet _ (is he even capable of such a thing?) while he lowers himself to the floor. 

_ ‘I got a birthday surprise for you, Eds. I’ve been practicing for like, a month. Are you ready?’ _

_ ‘Do not fucking sing, I’m begging you.’ _ A little bit to spare his eardrums, a little bit because if his mom hears Richie in his room she’ll kill them both.

_ ‘Ye of little faith. Singing is _ ** _so_ ** _ out of fashion. I can do better.’ _ And he takes a… whole… bottle of Coke… out of his backpack?

“Should I be concerned?” Eddie asks in a half-whisper, and Richie nods solemnly, untwists the cap, and chugs the whole thing.

Eddie watches on in horror, kind of wishing he could share this frankly unnerving experience with the rest of the Losers (he can tell, from the quiet in his head, that they’re all still sleeping, like he should be), as Richie smiles like the Cheshire Cat and starts burping a rendition of _ “Happy Birthday to You”. Why? _ Eddie wants to ask, but the question is overwhelmed completely by laughter. 

“Dude, that is _ so _ gross,” he says through a laughing fit he can barely contain, as Richie finishes his song and bows pompously.

“Gross, but totally impressive.” He burps again, one last time, and looks just surprised enough about it that Eddie’s thrown into another bout of giggles. Richie’s smile grows wider, if possible. 

“Eddie? What’s going on up there?” There’s the rumble of heavy footfalls at the bottom of the stairs and the sound of his mother’s huffing as she makes her way up. 

_ ‘Oh fuck.’ _ The door he’s worked so hard to construct to keep everyone out slams shut abruptly and he’s ushering Richie out the window before he can think twice about it. _ ‘Go, go, fucking go,’ _ he demands, and Richie complies easily enough. 

_ ‘I’ll see you at school?’ _ Richie asks, and Eddie nods frantically and slams the window shut, diving onto his bed with a random comic in hand just as his bedroom door creaks open. 

“I heard laughing,” Sonia Kaspbrak puffs, hands on her hips as she takes up the entire doorway. 

“Just something in the book I’m reading, mommy,” he explains as innocently as he can manage, heart thudding in his chest. 

She appraises his room at large, suspicion lighting her eyes, before beckoning him over. He doesn’t dare disobey. Just lets her press the back of her hand to his forehead and _ hum _ and _ haw _ and shake her head, sighing. “My poor baby. You have a fever. And on your birthday, of all days.”

And he _ knows. _ He shouldn’t have expected any different. He’s already in trouble for skipping class on Halloween and not returning home until the wee hours of the morning. He’s already been told to come _ straight _ home after school all week and that she’ll be in contact with his principal about his attendance. He’s already been confined to his room for three days, bursting with restless energy to the point of wanting to scream.

_ Anything _ to get him to stay here, with her, without making it seem like a real punishment.

“I feel fine,” he tries to tell her, but she’s shaking her head again and he’s not quick enough to stop everyone from feeling the way his heart plummets.

“You should stay in bed. No school. Mommy will bring you some medicine. It’ll be okay.”

He doesn’t argue further. He wishes he had the courage to do so, but instead he crawls right back into bed while his mother stomps back down to the kitchen to retrieve what he’s pretty sure is going to be a bunch of fake bullshit to “make him feel better.”

_ ‘No party tonight, sorry guys.’ _ The _ I should have seen this coming _ is held tight to his chest and he doesn’t let them hear it. It’s only Richie and Ben awake now, but there’s a synchronized groan from the two of them that’s just strong enough to rouse Bev, too. 

_ ‘Try again tomorrow?’ _ Richie offers.

_ ‘Unlikely.’ _

Then, privately, _ ‘Is it my fault?’ _

_ ‘No, I’m just running a temp,’ _ he assures Richie, even though it’s a big fat lie. _ ‘And you know how my mom is.’ _

Instead of a pizza party in the clubhouse like they’d planned, where Eddie could blow out the candles on his cake and open gifts, and they were all going to bring different board games to play (and Richie was hoping to bring his treasured Game Boy), he sits in the stuffy living room on the ratty old sofa and pretends to be interested in whatever is happening on the television. His mom sets the usual T.V. dinner in front of him, except this one has a brownie in it and there’s a lit candle dripping wax onto it.

“Happy birthday, Eddie-bear,” she croons, and he wonders if she kept him here because she’s still mad about Halloween or because she didn’t want him to spend the day with his “dirty” friends. He doesn’t like either option, but he sighs and blows out the candle anyway.

*

They drag him out to the Hanlon farm on Monday afternoon, despite his many, many protests, most involving the possibility of invoking his mother’s wrath, but they fall on deaf ears (mostly, he assumes, because they don’t realize he’s being serious). 

_ ‘I’ll give her a little extra tonight to put her into a better mood for ya, Eds,’ _ Richie jokes, thrusting his hips obscenely, and Eddie pretends to gag.

They all dump their bikes at the foot of the porch and rush inside, out of the cold. Eddie gapes, and everyone around him is bursting with excited chatter and rushing to hang up jackets and kick off shoes, and then Mike’s grandfather is patting him on the back and wishing him a happy belated birthday before announcing that he has to head into town for a few hours.

Eddie nods distractedly, stumbling forward into the living room and--

_ ‘We set it up yesterday,’ _Bill explains, flopping onto the couch and grabbing the remote to start flipping through channels. 

_ ‘Pizza will be here in twenty,’ _ Mike announces, already hanging up the phone and Eddie is still just standing there in his jacket, staring, because--

_ ‘You set up a party for me?’ _

“Well, yeah, it’s your birthday!” Richie throws an arm around his shoulders and tries to drag him into a noogie but he’s interrupted by Eddie’s, _ ‘Even though I ruined it on Friday?’ _

_ ‘Hey!’ _ Bev cuts in as Richie’s grip on him loosens slightly. _ ‘You didn’t ruin anything. Don’t even start with that.’ _

_ ‘You’re our friend, Eddie. It’s not your fault you couldn’t make it Friday.’ _Bill shrugs and tries to convey reassurance to him through that perfectly-balanced way of communicating he has.

_ ‘Even if we had to wait a month, we’d still throw you a party,’ _ Stan adds, and it’s that, more than anything else -- more than the streamers in various shades of blue (his favourite colour), the little pile of presents on the coffee table, and the stack of VHS tapes he knows for a fact are from Richie’s house because they’ve watched them together in Richie’s room a million times over -- that makes tears well up in his eyes before he can stop them.

“Thank you,” he says aloud, even as he has to hide his face in his hands to keep from embarrassing himself.

He knows the gratitude overflows to wash over all of them, and so does the unmistakable sensation of trying not to cry, that pinprick burn in his eyes that trickles down to his throat. He’s swept up in a hug near-instantly, a tangle of arms encasing him from all sides, and he maybe lets a tear or two slip free before the laughter takes over. It might be his own helpless joy at the gesture from his friends or perhaps just the warmth they all emanate, inside and out, but it bubbles up out of him easy and clear nonetheless.

And then Richie actually does drag him into a headlock and give him a noogie and he’s trying to fight him off while both of them go weak with mirth, and Mike is asking what kind of music Eddie likes and offering to let him go through their record collection. Richie’s the one to put a hand up and insist that Whitney Houston is the way to go. Mike is more than happy to oblige.

Even without Bev caught up in the Loser-pile on the couch, while they all chow down on pizza and half-watch _ The Goonies, _ Eddie finds that he can’t quite _ miss _ her, because she’s still _ here _ with them. It’s all very confusing, and everyone else (Bev included) agrees. 

_ ‘I mean, I wish I could be there with you, but, y’know. I’m also _ ** _right here,_ ** _ so…’ _ They all get a good chuckle out of that and Bev’s smile, though not visible to them, is contagious as she reminds them to, _ ‘Give our dear Eddie an extra hug for me.’ _

He still kind of wishes she was here, all steady light and cigarette smoke and bony elbows digging into his upper arm when she makes a bad pun and demands a reaction, much like Richie tends to do. For now, he leans back further against Richie and they all long for the day they can be reunited again, even if none of them say it out loud. 

Ben offers to start up a bonfire out back for them (with Mike’s permission), and despite Eddie’s insistence that he shouldn’t have marshmallows because they’ll rot his teeth right out of his skull, he’s talked into s’mores several times over by a very persuasive set of arguments from Richie and Bill. They scoot in as close to the blaze as they dare to get (Mike the only one to hang back a bit), warming numb fingers in the firelight.

It’s so late -- later than he has any business being out -- and he can’t bring himself to care, long after the sun disappears in the gloaming and Ben’s had to add more fuel to the fire twice. He smiles through a game of truth or dare and nearly topples off the overturned bucket he’s using as a seat when Stan dares Richie to burn a marshmallow and then eat the whole thing. Richie, being himself and lacking common sense in spite of his astounding book smarts, blows out the flame and crams the whole thing in his mouth, then promptly yells and spits it back out, bitching about burning his tongue. Eddie throws his whole head back and _ howls _, tears in his eyes again but this time from the force with which he’s laughing.

“Oh, _ fuck! _ Jiminy _ fuckin’ Cricket,” _ Richie whines, hands cupped over his mouth. “Why did you let me do that?” he asks no one in particular, and at least the rest of the Losers have the decency to try to muffle their laughter at his misfortune. 

It makes the impatient tapping of his mother’s foot and her borderline hysterics upon his arrival home feel less potent.

* * *


	10. The bully problem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life is just more entertaining when you can read your friends' minds, isn't it?

* * *

February 1990

* * *

It doesn’t stop at the eggs tossed at Stan’s house in the middle of the night, frozen solid by the time his parents notice in the morning. Or Bill being pushed into the canal, scraping the shit out of his arms and legs and even his cheek on the way down, in the dead of winter, so that he’s near hypothermic by the time the rest of them get to him. 

Or when Ben is nearly run over in what used to be Henry Bowers’ car, leaping off the road at the last second and resulting in a sprained wrist. 

It escalates, into that familiar dead-cold glaze in Vic Criss’ eyes that they once associated with Bowers. There’s the rumble of speculation between them, of wondering if this has anything to do with  _ It _ \-- if It’s even actually  _ dead, _ which douses them all in fear, for the promise they made of twenty-seven years in the future and the possibility of having to face It again, even as grown-ups.

There’s the question of what it is, precisely, that affects all the people living in Derry so severely, and what kind of outlet a group of hapless teenage boys would make. 

Plus, of course, questions directed at a turtle-god they’re not even sure exists except for a few vivid dreams they all shared.

There’s always going to be evil in Derry, one of them (maybe all of them) hopelessly concludes while they hide in the clubhouse one bitterly cold evening. And there’s always going to have to be some way for it to feed.

Derry needs a Bowers, in some form or another, and it  _ creates _ one when need be.

They all end up in the arcade in an attempt to escape the snowstorm howling outside, when they’re too restless on a Sunday to sit on their couches and watch one mind-numbing television program after another. Richie’s beating his own high score on  _ Street Fighter _ while Stan hovers over his shoulder and tries to make him fuck up, a smug grin brewing on his face, even while Richie’s score climbs higher in spite of the distractions. 

Eddie’s setting down an order of funnel fries and nachos on the table they’ve monopolized when he catches sight of Vic, Moose, and Gard on the sidewalk just outside the door. They’re bent close to each other, poorly dressed for the weather but seemingly unaffected by the cold, and when Vic glances up and makes eye contact with him his stomach leaps into his throat.

“Oh, fuh-fuck,” Bill groans, following his gaze. Vic’s got that same wild light in his eyes that Bowers made them all so afraid of.  _ Didn’t he used to be the least dangerous of them? _ Eddie can’t help but wonder, and if anything he could swear it was Vic who would tell Henry to take it easy when he’d trace over Eddie’s cheeks with his switchblade or rub his face in the mud and call him  _ girly-boy. _

They disappear into the flurry but there’s the collective thought from everyone seated at the table that  _ they’re still out there. _

_ Waiting. _

“We could take ‘em,” Richie announces over the din inside the arcade, jam-packed with teenagers trying to hide from the elements, same as them. “Six-to-three? No problem.”

_ ‘Just the three we saw,’ _ Mike reminds him.  _ ‘Not to mention all three of them are bigger than most of us.’ _

_ ‘A good fight’s not about being the biggest, Homeschool. It’s about being quick on your feet.’ _ Richie pretends to dodge swiftly back and forth and ends up smacking his elbow on the edge of the table, sending a shock up all their arms when he hits right on his funny bone. “Oh,  _ motherf--” _

“I think being able to throw a solid punch is pretty important in a fight,” Ben points out mildly.

“Oh, no, I meant for like, running the fuck away,” Richie jokes, a little wheezy, still clutching his arm. “Ya know, like a brave little soldier.”

They do, in fact, run the fuck away when Moose comes charging at them out of the storm a few hours later, laughing raucously and sporting a manic grin. Richie screams, “Scatter!” and they  _ do, _ without thinking ahead. Eddie slows to keep pace with Ben, ducking into the video rental store right beside him and collapsing onto the floor behind some shelves, out of sight. They heave for air for a few seconds before they glance at each other and Ben is the first to break out in breathless little giggles, even though their hearts are absolutely pounding. 

Moose could easily crush their feeble little skulls in his hands, sure, but the danger is a little less scary when they’re together. 

Bill does a couple roll calls, asking over and over if everyone’s alright and they all actually got away, and there are bursts of amusement from all around, everyone running on the same high and relishing the same flash of shock and confusion from Moose they felt when they all took off in different directions. 

They converge again in the back alley behind Rosa’s, an increasingly frequent meeting spot, and pool their remaining money together to buy hot chocolate and a few doughnuts. 

Hannah performs her usual routine of rolling her eyes and sighing while she surveys the rosy-cheeked handful of teenage boys dripping snowmelt all over the booth, grinning ear-to-ear and babbling to each other in ways that would be impossible to follow outside of their own heads. 

It’s comfortable, for now. Even with bad things happening around them every day, even knowing they’re living in a town built on top of literal evil -- a town afflicted, down to the bone, with  _ literal evil _ \-- the  _ here and now _ is easy to live with. Smacking each other in the face with wet scarves and nearly spilling hot chocolate all over the place and laughing so loud at something Richie said that another patron shushes them impatiently.  _ Fuck Bowers and his legacy, _ Eddie thinks, or perhaps that was Richie, or maybe Stan. They all look around at each other and smile, secret thoughts shared among them all, and they know this “shine” thing couldn’t possibly be bad, if it makes them feel like this.

_ ‘Hey, guys,’ _ Bev interrupts, and Richie’s face, if it could, lights up even brighter. There’s something that passes between them, just out of reach of the others (they’ve been keeping  _ secrets, _ it would seem). For a moment, Eddie’s gut twists up with razor-sharp envy that he doesn’t understand, but it’s quickly forgotten when Bev continues,  _ ‘What if I told you I could come back to Derry for the summer?’ _

* * *


	11. Bev's return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just taking the pieces of book canon I like and the pieces of movie canon that work for this fic and stringing them together into a story.  
No, I will not be stopped.

* * *

June 1990

* * *

Bev barely has time to haul her suitcase out of the back seat of her aunt’s car before she’s being tackled from all sides in a hug. The momentum inevitably sends them all toppling over onto Richie’s front lawn, all alight with joy and scrambling to maintain a hold on each other.

As soon as she’s dropped her stuff off inside, they want to drag her down to the clubhouse, and her aunt barely has time to give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek with a promise to see her soon before she’s disappearing down the road on the brand new bike she brought with her from Portland.

“She’s looking into getting some kind of, I dunno, temporary rental for an apartment next summer.” Bev shrugs, coasting down the slight incline of West Broadway. “But she says, in the meantime, to ‘thank that Tozier boy and his parents for their hospitality’.”

“Honestly, my parents probably won’t even notice you’re there,” Richie jokes, even though he’s told them several times that Bev would be coming to stay the summer and all of them know it. 

Mike frowns, and Eddie can see it in his peripheral vision, but he doesn’t say anything. They all have these things -- the “Derry-isms”, Bev and Ben refer to them as; being the only two Losers who have seen life outside of this shit town -- that are normal to them but not to anyone else. Mike knows it. Eddie knows it. Richie knows it, even if he sometimes doesn’t want to acknowledge it. Instead, Stan thinks,  _ ‘Can’t believe your aunt is letting you stay at a boy’s house,’ _ with this terribly sly grin, and Bev and Richie share a playful look before they both tip their heads back to laugh, high and bright, into the summer air. 

  
  


_ I Melt With You _ rolls through the clubhouse as background music while Bev screeches profanity and lunges for the little red rubber ball. It bounces nonchalantly off into a corner and she groans loudly while the rest of them laugh, or try  _ not _ to laugh, at her misfortune.

“I literally hate this,” she complains, but she’s smiling nonetheless and it’s  _ contagious. _ She doesn’t often think with  _ feeling, _ not the way Eddie’s noticed Richie does, or the way Bill and Stan sometimes-sort-of do. But right now there’s this big full spot in his heart that feels like  _ home, _ and it stems from Bev and it definitely isn’t directed at fucking Derry.

_ Home is where the Losers are, _ she’d joked on the way up to the clubhouse, and he knows what she means.

_ ‘We told you not to bring out the Jacks, Richie,’ _ Mike is saying pointedly, rushing off to retrieve the ball for Bev. 

_ ‘Mike’s right. This never ends well.’ _

_ _ Richie scoffs, eyeing the pile of Jacks by his knee.  _ ‘Just ‘cause I’m the reigning champ doesn’t mean you have to let your envy show, Haystack.’ _

“You’re not even winning,” Stan points out.

“Green’s not a good look on you,” Richie shoots back -- Eddie can sense, without having to dig too far into Richie’s mindspace, that he’s well aware it’s actually Mike who’s winning, but Richie’s not going to admit that.

“Ugly-ass floral prints aren’t a good look on you,” Stan replies, smoothly, and Richie’s jaw kind of pops open with surprise before he doubles over with giggles.

_ ‘Yowza!’ _ is all he gets out between fits and Stan looks so,  _ so _ proud of himself. Richie’s laughter is as contagious as Bev’s contentment at finally being home, and they’re all caught up in it easily, game of Jacks forgotten on the clubhouse floor. 

“I want to swim in the quarry again. I miss that,” Bev says as the raucous laughter dies down, several minutes later. The mischief is tangible as her grin grows and she glances around at each of them in turn.  _ ‘Bet you’re all too chicken-shit to jump first.’ _

She’s taking off, up the ladder, before anyone can react. Then it’s a mad scramble to exit the clubhouse and prove themselves to her -- their seemingly fearless not-quite-leader. The only one who can talk them into dumb shit faster than Bill (and maybe Mike, who is persuasive in his own right). 

Eddie’s one of the first to make chase, hauling ass out of the clubhouse and breaking into a sprint through the undergrowth, not sparing a thought for the poison ivy, thistles, stinging insects -- whatever may lurk beneath -- singularly focused on the mop of red hair in disarray bobbing through the trees up ahead. The pumping of his heart in his chest and rush of air through his lungs (the way he can feel those things from the other Losers, too, seven hearts beating just out of time with each other). Twigs and leaves whipping against his bare legs and Bev beckoning them all after her, internally and with those familiar peals of chiming laughter that they all missed so dearly the ten months she was apart from them. It rings back at them through the trees and he surpasses her easily, the laughter fading out behind him instead. 

At the top of the shallow incline that leads to one of their favourite summer hangouts, he pauses only long enough to remove his shirt, shoes, and fanny pack. There’s rustling in the treeline a ways behind him. Chest heaving, he takes a running start and then he’s airborne, an intense fluttering in his stomach as gravity drags him down,  _ down _ into the filthy quarry water far below, and just before he hits the water he can hear Richie whistling and shouting from the top.

For a moment, there’s just the light and peace and silence of being underwater, wherein he forces himself not to care about the bacteria that must grow in stagnant water caught out in the summer heat like this. He exhales a stream of bubbles and kicks up, back towards the light. 

He breaks up through the surface just as several bodies hit the water around him with spectacular splashes. He watches them all float back up and shove dripping hair out of their faces, most of them still half-dressed, all smiling so wide it’s making his own cheeks ache (or maybe he’s just that happy, too). 

And he thinks (leaving the door wide open for everyone to hear, as Richie slings an arm over his shoulder and tells him  _ what a little badass you are, Eds!) _ that…

Well, that Derry sucks. Derry is and always has been and probably always  _ will be _ a terrible place to live. Derry is a place built on a legacy of evil and there’s little they can do to change that.

But being with the Losers makes it all seem a little less terrible. 

*

There’s a low whistle that seems to shift the world around them as a freight train rumbles across the overhead tracks. The affixed singular headlight cuts a cone of amber through the heavy dark. Eddie stops to watch it go by. Wonders if they might get caught out here and wonders if anyone might care. They don’t mean any harm. Anyone could see that just from looking at them -- a bunch of kids barely pushing their  _ real _ teenage years, chasing fireflies and throwing handfuls of dandelions at each other. There are those serene little goblet-like flowers that only bloom at night starting to unfurl all around them and the grass brushes Eddie’s knees in places. The train whistles again. It’s headed west, towards the rift in the sky where the reddish-pink sunlight still reaches over the horizon towards them, fading fast. 

He’s snapped out of his daze when a firefly lights up right beside his face, hands clapping closed around it without second thought. “Got another!” he calls, hurrying for the jar Mike’s holding. He’s poked air holes in the lid, not wide enough for the bugs to escape through but enough so the oxygen can circulate, he’d said. He handles it carefully -- handles the little fireflies inside like they’re precious, and to him it seems they are. Eddie can’t help the soft smile when Mike holds open the jar for him and he deposits his catch inside, and Mike, of course, looks up and smiles back as he replaces the lid. “What?”

“I think you’re great,” Eddie says, maybe  _ too _ soft, and then his cheeks  _ burn _ and he turns on his heel, hurrying back towards the tracks (the bridges, where the extension of Neibolt street was supposed to pass under, but they never built that, did they? No wonder why). Richie catches him with an arm around his shoulders and immediately digs his knuckles into his gelled-down hair, messing it up so it sticks in all directions. _ “Aurgh!  _ Get off, Rich!” Eddie screeches, momentary embarrassment forgotten easily as he fights Richie off, swatting uselessly at his arms and shoulders. 

“Say ‘uncle’!”

“Fuck you!” Eddie finally gets hold of one of his arms in both hands and promptly gives him an Indian rope burn, which has Richie relinquishing his grip in a heartbeat. 

_ ‘There goes the sun,’ _ Bev says over the clamour of their argument (over Richie’s fake-tearful, ‘How could you do this to me, Eds? Your dearest friend? Betrayal at its finest…’), pointing in the direction that train just disappeared, to the stretch of night-dark that covers everything in the distance. Stars are winking awake all across the sky now that they aren’t being drowned out by the sun’s overpowering light. 

Eddie pulls the bug spray out of his fanny pack and spritzes himself down  _ again, _ turning the nozzle on Richie before he can protest. Mosquitoes carry all manner of diseases he isn’t interested in seeing either of them subject to. His mom reminds him of that all the time (add it to the endless list of reasons he shouldn’t be out of the house after dark). Richie tries to fan it away, feigning a coughing fit, then pretending to have an asthma attack, tea-kettle whistle and all, which earns him a hard shove into the overgrown grass. He catches Eddie by the wrist and drags him down, too. “No!” Eddie shrieks when he tries to pin him there. “I’m allergic to grass!”

When he pushes Richie off, Richie maintains his grip on his hoodie and they just end up rolling over onto a tuft of wildflowers, which makes that not-mom mom-voice in his head gasp, scandalized, and start spouting off bullshit about all his other ‘allergies’. “Hm, no. You aren’t.”

“There’s a reason your name is, Dick,  _ dick.” _ Eddie tries to roll off of him. Richie’s still got the fabric of his hoodie twisted up in his fists. He gives a heave and then he’s on top of Eddie again, one arm pinning him across the chest, and Eddie quakes with false-anger and the effort of not laughing -- the effort of not listening to that increasingly furious howl in his head about the dirt the  _ bugs the grass the pollen what about broken glass, Eddie, what about used needles? What about tetanus? Fire ants? Wasps? Scorpions? -- _ there are no scorpions in Maine, ma.

Richie’s chest lights up with a deep laugh. It rumbles up out of him and bursts low across the fields. The feeling catches Eddie right around his belly button and yanks an equally hearty laugh out of him.  _ ‘Having any good chucks, Eds?’ _ he asks even as he gasps for breath and all it takes is accidental eye contact Eddie to make him start up again.

_ “Please  _ call me Dick more often,” he wheezes eventually, clutching at his aching stomach muscles. Eddie rips up a handful of grass and weeds and throws it on his head, his own stomach starting to hurt from the force of his laughter when Richie reels back and shakes it out of his hair like a dog shaking off water. 

_ ‘It’s only ‘cause you are one.’ _

Richie shrugs and stands, several pieces of plant life still stuck in his hair and against the bow of his glasses. He brings Eddie to his feet with him. “You are what you eat, Eddie Spaghetti,” he says with a wink.

Eddie’s about to ask him what the fuck that means when Stan tells them to hurry the hell up or he’ll steal their snacks. So he books it instead, away from Richie and towards where Stan is gathering up _three_ baggies of Oreos for himself. _Oh, no, no, Mister Uris, no you _**_don’t,_** he thinks as he sprints towards the flattened patch of grass they’ve started to lay out blankets on. He sails right over the ratty blue picnic blanket Bill brought from his house and snatches all three bags of Oreos from Stan on the way back down. “Hey!” Stan cries, a little shocked and a lot miffed. Eddie makes a sharp turn, back in the direction he just came from; when he hears Stan make chase, he catches a stunned Richie by the wrist and swings him around to run away with him. 

“Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck,” he huffs as they speed through the grass that whips their knees and send clouds of pollen sprouting up from patches of flowers they tread on. 

_ ‘Fuck you; give those back!’ _ Stan calls out from behind them, the sound a whip-crack through their bond. 

“You tried to take them first!” Richie hollers over his shoulder, and Eddie tries to shush him, lest they get caught trespassing and kicked out. “It’s called karma,” Richie shouts again anyway -- Eddie claps a hand to his forehead, smacking himself with a bag of cookies in the process. 

_ ‘Richie, shut the fuck up, oh my God, do you have any idea how much trouble--?’ _

Richie doesn’t get to find out how much trouble they’ll be in, because Eddie trips on a rock jutting awkwardly out of the ground and eats shit, and consequently, Richie goes down  _ hard _ beside him. The tingle of skinned knees and hands  _ pops _ alive between them in the same instant and they both swear loudly at the same time. 

_ ‘I’m so sorry. Shit, I’m so sorry.’ _ Eddie starts fumbling with the zipper on his fanny pack before anything else, spilling Band-Aids and alcohol wipes onto the earth between them, amongst countless pill bottles in varying sizes (faintly, he hears Richie wonder  _ what kind of Mary Poppins shit _ he pulled to get that all in there).  _ ‘Sorry,’ _ he tries again, tearing open one of the wipes and scooting closer to Richie to roll up his torn pant legs and start cleaning the scrapes on his knees. 

“It’s okay,” Richie says dumbly, going rag-doll while Eddie stretches his leg this way and that to inspect the damage. It’s hard to see what he’s doing in the dusk-light, so he gives each knee a few extra swipes for good measure. “It was an accident.”

“Are you alright?” Stan is asking, suddenly standing above them against a backdrop of constellations and velvet-black sky. He eyes their bloodied knees and his concern trickles through to the rest of them. 

_ ‘Yeah, fine, sorry-- we’re fine. Sorry. You can take your cookies back.’ _

“It’s okay,” Stan says. “Keep them.” He stares at Richie long and hard and Eddie is too busy bandaging up Richie’s legs to intrude on their exchange. 

“Eds, dude, you need to breathe.”

_ ‘Huh?’ _

Oh, fuck--  _ shit, _ is he having an asthma attack? Oh, fuck, he  _ is, _ isn’t he? Why not? Why  _ wouldn’t _ he  _ doubly _ fuck up the one night he’s allowed himself a little bit of rebellion -- the one night he’s decided  _ fuck _ a curfew,  _ fuck _ his mother’s warnings about the dark,  _ fuck _ the consequences of his actions. And here he is, experiencing some of those very consequences, and working himself into his first asthma attack in literal  _ months _ over it.

This only succeeds in making his breathing  _ more _ erratic, and faintly he can hear Stan and Richie talking, or maybe that’s not out loud and it’s just in their heads, and maybe they’re talking to him? He doesn’t know. His lungs  _ burn. _ His throat is closing. He can’t fathom what triggered this, except perhaps guilt over Richie getting hurt, or-- he doesn’t want to think about it, but maybe the fear of infection seeping into all those little cuts on the palms of his hands and those raw spots on his kneecaps. Maybe  _ (no) _ his mom’s reaction when she sees the shredded spots on his jeans and the blood that seeped through. Hospitals and tetanus shots and more pills he doesn’t need and  _ why do you do this to me, Eddie?  _

Hands touch his face and he blinks rapidly until the reddish blur comes into focus, Bev smiling all reassuring above him, the question of,  _ ‘Is this okay?’ _ hanging ripe between them. He nods. He  _ thinks _ he nods. Bev blinks and her too-blue eyes seem to glow in the starlight and she’s talking, talking to him, talking out loud until she breaks the rest of the way through the bond and reminds him he’s fine.

Of  _ course _ he’s fine; he doesn’t quite understand what caused his asthma to flare up like this in the first place, and when he thinks that she looks so  _ sad _ that he’s surprised his heart doesn’t crack in two then and there.  _ ‘It was an accident. You didn’t mean to hurt him,’ _ she offers, brushing his hair off his forehead. His palms sting with the reminder of another injury he can’t hide from his mother.  _ ‘I need you to breathe. Don’t think that. You’re not having an asthma attack, Eddie, you just need to breathe, alright?’ _

And he does, forcing air into his lungs  _ slower _ until he isn’t bordering on hyperventilation anymore. Until the rest of the world comes back into focus and the rest of the feeling comes back into his body -- hands on his knees, smoothing Band-Aids into place; the sting of alcohol on his dirtied hands; a cooling tear-track on his cheek. “I’m sorry,” he blurts again as Richie finishes cleaning up his hands, startling them all. “I didn’t mean to...”

“Oh, Eddie Spaghetti, if you think that’s the worst I’m gonna get hurt this summer -- hell, this  _ week _ \-- you are  _ sorely _ mistaken. I’m the undefeated champion of Being a Fucking Klutz, fourteen years in a row.”

That gets a  _ chuck _ out of him, much to Richie’s relief. Stan and Bev help them clean up the mess they made and escort them back to the star-gazing set-up the Losers have put together, complete with jars of fireflies scattered between the blankets and backpacks full of assorted snack foods waiting, open, for ravenous teenagers to raid them. 

He doesn’t mean to fall asleep so fast. It’s just that he exhausted himself with his not-asthma attack, and it doesn’t help that when he complains about the cold (the temperature drops  _ quick _ once the sun is gone, and the humid summer air becomes a cold, wet nightmare), Mike passes him a spare blanket that he cocoons himself in and it’s  _ so warm, so cozy, _ and the stars are beautiful, enchanting, something he can’t stop looking away from while his eyes droop shut. He doesn’t fight it. The sounds of Richie’s mouth still running, so close by (he can feel the vibrations in his chest right near his cheek; feel the heat radiating off of him) is, for once, not a nuisance but something welcome. Lulling. 

He wakes up to the moon illuminating the world around him and fingers in his hair. The tip of his nose is ice-cold but his cheek is still toasty where he’s pressed up against Richie. “Oh, fuck. My mom’s gonna  _ flip,” _ are the first words out of his mouth.


	12. The baseball shenanigans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah, a chapter on a Monday? Unheard of!  
(I'm really far ahead with writing chapters of this fic which is a big miracle so you're gonna get a couple of "bonus" chapters posted between my "real" updating schedule).
> 
> 90% of this fic isn't even PLOT, it's just me doing whatever I want, and what I WANT is cute happy fun times and the kids bonding, so that's what you're going to GET.
> 
> <3

* * *

July 1990

* * *

_ ‘No one’s using the baseball diamond.’ _

At first, Bill only gets a few grunts of absent acknowledgement as they all cycle past on their way back from their Saturday matinee _ (Arachnophobia _ and _ Ghost Dad, _ back to back), before it settles in all the way. 

The ball diamond is _ never _ unoccupied in the summertime, no matter how badly any of the Losers want to use it. The boys who usually monopolize it are a step down from the Bowers gang in terms of viciousness, but none of them are so naive as to not realize when they’re being made fun of. Those boys will call them names just loud enough to hear and act like they never said anything; boss them around like they rule the fucking world or some shit; feign politeness and back it with aggression and subtle taunting. They’ve made the executive decision to just fucking avoid them. So they’ve settled, on occasion, for attempts at games in someone’s backyard, much too small a space for any real fun, and they tried to set up a game on a patch of land at the Hanlon farm a few weeks ago, using scrap board Ben said he borrowed from his neighbour. They’d been rained out by one of the worst storms this summer has seen yet. Too much lightning and all for any kids to be out playing in the open like that, Leroy Hanlon had said, and ushered them all into the house for lemonade and a movie marathon until the power had inevitably gone out. Then it had become scary stories around the lantern-light, but having already lived through scarier shit than any story could come up with, none of them had been very successful at getting a rise out of their friends, except maybe Bill, who kept up the charade of their normalcy by stuttering his way through a gruesome tale out loud, aware of Mr. Hanlon’s listening ears, but in his head was delving into details beyond what some of them could handle. 

When he described a werewolf’s transformation into the beast it was always meant to be, Eddie was sure he could feel the phantom _ snap _ of his own bones taking on a new form, and the shudder from Richie beside him told him he was not the only one. 

Mr. Hanlon’s barking laughter had followed the conclusion of the story, carrying over from the kitchen into the living room where they all sat huddled and still-damp on the living room floor, and he’d said in that croaking old-man voice Eddie’s begun to associate with men who have lived too many lives in one, “You kids sure have _ some _ imagination, don’tcha?”

Richie had easily countered Bill’s werewolf story with one about ants standing on a piece of shit, chanting about their impending demise -- this had Eddie shoving his shoulder through messy laughter and calling him ** _gross,_ ** _ so gross; what the hell is wrong with you? _

Today there’s no rain. There aren’t even any clouds. There are certainly no haughty boys from the more upscale parts of town hanging around, acting like they own the damn place. There’s just a faint breeze that stirs the packed red dirt in the field and a gaggle of Losers perched on bikes staring it down from the shoulder of the road. 

“Huh,” Mike says. “No one’s using the baseball diamond.” This time it’s accompanied by a silent, _ you know what that means, _ and Bill kicks Silver off the asphalt, pedalling furiously to get her up to speed. 

He’s going to get his gear, they all know without needing to ask. Richie is quick to follow after him -- he’s also got baseball gear collecting dust in his garage, a couple of bats and balls and a glove that probably won’t fit him anymore but might fit Eddie or Bev. The rest of them wheel their bikes down the slight incline and dump them under the rusted bleachers. 

They’re just clearing dust off the bases when Bill comes back, Richie not too far behind, each balancing an array of equipment in their bike-baskets. 

They don’t immediately “play” so much as they dick around, getting a feel for the bats and figuring out who can use which gloves (Richie was right, his old glove from when he was in Little League fits Eddie just fine, and he doesn’t stop poking fun at him for it the whole afternoon, even while Eddie gets red to his ears and stamps his feet). Bill, always good at everything because that’s just who he is, their capable leader, the glue holding them all together, sends the lot of them chasing after balls that he hits to frankly astounding distances. Eddie manages to be first on the scene nearly every time, which earns him appreciative cheers he isn’t sure how to handle, and a joke from Richie about beating reliable old Silver in a downhill race. 

_ ‘There’s only seven of us, so I dunno how we’re going to do this,’ _ Bill admits once they’ve cooled down and are lounging in the partial shade beside the bleachers. 

“Well, it starts like this,” Richie says, mischief brewing in his eyes and spilling over through the shine, “Who’s on first?”

Eddie groans, Bill groans, Stan groans, and Ben asks, politely, because his mama didn’t raise no rude boy, “Well, that’s what we need to figure out. Also, who’s going to bat first? Maybe we can _ just _ cover the bases and have someone pitch?”

“No, no.” Richie’s ballooning excitement about his joke baffles the three newer Losers and gets the rest shaking their heads, but they all know better than to try and interfere just yet. “Who is on_ first.”_

Now Bev looks just about as confused as Ben, and Mike’s got the dawning light of realization in his eyes that makes Bill place a hand on his shoulder in solidarity and sigh. _ ‘He’s a moron. I try to warn you guys, I really do.’ _

“What?” Ben asks, sharing a bewildered look with Bev -- Eddie can’t help the little puff of mirth that hisses out between his teeth, especially not when Richie opens his mouth again and, in a perfect imitation of William Alexander Abbott, says,

“What is on second base.”

_ ‘I’ll be Tomorrow if you stop, right now,’ _ Stan pleads, exasperated, and that alone sends Richie into peals of laughter. 

“What does that even _ mean?” _ Bev asks, and Ben makes the mistake of responding with a shrug and an, “I don’t know,” which has Bill burying his face in his hands.

** _‘No, _ ** _ dammit,’ _he complains loudly.

“I Don’t Know is on third.” Richie’s laughing so hard he can barely get the words out, and it’s starting to bubble up in Eddie’s chest, too, in ways beyond his ability to control. 

“I’m not doing this shit again,” Stan grumbles, standing from where he’s perched on the low edge of one bench and dusting off the seat of his pants even though he’s the only one of them who refused to sit on the ground. 

“What shit? What’s happening?” Ben asks, almost frantic now, which only succeeds in getting Richie going again.

_ ‘He’s doing a fucking Abbott and Costello bit,’ _ Bill explains brokenly, face still in his hands. Richie’s teeth flash in the relentless summer sun and Eddie has to stifle his giggles.

“I got an idea, Eddie can be I Don’t Give a Darn, because he’s--” he has to take a few deep breaths to compose himself, and Eddie catches on to what he’s about to say a millisecond before it leaves his big, dumb mouth, “because he’s the-- the _ short _-stop.”

Now Eddie leaps to his feet and folds his arms over his chest, glaring down at Richie (whose deeply contagious guffaws are wearing him down fast) and spitting in mock-rage, “I’m gonna kick your ass, I swear!”

“I believe it. I believe you could, Eds,” Richie tells him, almost sombre, and ruins it with, “But you wouldn’t. I’m too precious.”

_ ‘Don’t push your luck, Rich. And _ ** _don’t_ ** _ call me Eds. You know I hate that.’ _ Richie knows he doesn’t. He doesn’t mention it, just kicks back to lie down in the brown grass and winks up at him.

“None of those rude little bully b'ys out here to bother ye, eh?” Six of the Losers jump and Stan, having stalked several feet away in an attempt to escape Richie’s antics, actually barks out a laugh as Mr. Nell, probably the only truly good cop any of them have ever met, rounds the bleachers with his thumbs set firmly in his belt-loops, shiny red cheeks set in a playful smile.

“Oh, _ Jay-sus,” _ Richie sighs, clutching his heart.

“You nuh-nuh-know about that?” Bill asks.

“Those kids ain’t nivver been nice to nobody, in my experience. Nobody except their own selves, ‘course, but even then that’s questionable.” Mr. Nell laughs, now, a belly-deep thing, one hand moving up over his chest. “Jus’ passing by, boyos.” He does kind of a double-take, wipes sweat off his large forehead, then adds, “And girl.” (“Girl” comes out sounding more like “gehl”, owing to the accent).

None of the Losers speak (this miracle accomplished solely by Bill’s hand clamped over Richie’s mouth, because when he gets going around Mr. Nell he becomes both an embarrassment and a bane, and he can save that for his own time, thank you very much). Stan has circled back around to sit on the edge of the bleachers again.

“Yer not getting into any trouble, now, are ye?” They all shake their heads. “None o’ that underage drinkin’ and smokin’ you kiddos like to get up to nowadays?” They all shake their heads a second time, Ben pitching in a, _ “No, sir,” _ even as Bev reaches into the pocket of her overalls to tuck a carton of darts out of sight. 

Mr. Nell belts out another hearty laugh, clapping Stan merrily on the shoulder, and Eddie’s got it in his mind to wonder if _ he’s _ the one getting up to the drinking and the smoking today. He’s a nice man, sure, but not often _ this _ nice. “Ah, I’m only messing with ye. Yer good kids, you lot. Those little b'ys who like to keep this place to themselves, you know, if they come by with their little name-calling and teasing or they come by and they try to chase you off their field, you tell ‘em Officer Nell will set ‘em straight if they don’t straighten up themselves.”

“Wuh-will do, suh-hir,” Bill amends evenly, despite the fact that Richie is all but chomping on his hand to get free. He doesn’t let go until the drunk cop has waddled back up to the gravel shoulder of Kansas Street. 

“Well, alright, then, laddies, quit actin’ the maggot! Crack on! I’ll take first if one o’ you dossers’ll take third, but second’s reserved for--” Bill is quick to put his hand over Richie’s loud mouth again to muffle the God-awful Irish accent, but nothing he does can drown out Richie’s obnoxious laughter.

  
  


_ ‘You guys aren’t gonna believe this,’ _ Mike tells them that evening, when a majority of them are sitting around kitchen tables with their families. But he doesn’t _ tell _ them what “this” is. Not right away. Not until he’s talked them all into gathering at the clubhouse the following afternoon (a grey, drizzly day) and he’s been waiting on the lopsided swing with a plastic shower cap on his head for all of them to arrive. 

He smiles when the door closes behind Richie. It’s dazzling. Eddie has to wonder what news could possibly be so exciting for _ all _ of them that he wants them all present to hear it. 

“Well, Homeschool, that’s everyone. Spit it out already,” Richie says, hopping from foot-to-foot with poorly-repressed excitement, but this only makes Mike giggle.

“Actually… it's not ‘Homeschool’ anymore. That’s what I wanted to tell you.”

“Huh?” says a chorus of Losers, and then the meaning strikes and there’s a collective, _ ‘Wait…’ _

“Guess who gets to go to high school with you?” Mike says, giddy, a moment before he’s crushed in a six-sided hug. 

It almost feels like an unfair trade -- they aren’t going to get Bev back any time soon (only in the summers), and they’ve all wished they could have Mike at school with them every day, not just to stop by and join them for lunch but to share classes with them and pass notes and complain about Mr. Wallace’s garlic breath _ (‘Thank god I’m not a vampire,’ _ Richie would say, and then pull an imaginary cape over his face, waggle his eyebrows, and whisper, _ ‘Or, am I?’) _ and study for tests. 

Eddie wishes they could have both. He knows, in his heart, that Bev is better off in her new school in Portland. That she has friends (none so close as them, but friends nonetheless), that she’s well-liked, that there aren’t deranged gangs of older boys roaming around looking for an opportunity to pulverize her, or any of her friends. That things are just _ simpler _ for her in Portland. That, if the universe was a bit kinder, they could all go there with her every September and not have to spend every day in this hellhole.

Is it selfish to want both, though? Is it wrong of him to wish they could have Mike _ and _ Bev at Derry High with them?

Bev’s arm over his shoulders grips tighter, and he’s sure it isn’t.

* * *


	13. The Hanlon farm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Helping out on the Hanlon's farm.

* * *

September 1990

* * *

“Gramps is gonna drive the truck through the fields a bit at a time and we just have to load the potatoes into the back,” Mike explains, handing out slips of paper and pens for the Losers to write their names. He starts securing them to the barrels loaded in the back of the mongrel truck with strips of adhesive as they’re passed back to him. “He’ll give you a dollar a barrel, he says, which is more than most folks who help with the harvest make.”

“Wowza. I can definitely work with that.”

“It’s a lot harder to fill a barrel than you’d think,” Mike tells Richie, and boy howdy, is he ever fucking right.

Twenty minutes in and even Richie’s a sweaty, aching disaster. Eddie’s got mud streaked up his arms and a million issues with it. Everyone’s got a complaint about a sore back. 

The first barrels aren’t even half-full.

An hour in and everything still sucks, but they’re still truckin’ on, if only because they’re trying to do Mr. Hanlon a favour (does it count as a favour when you’re doing it for money?) and they’re not planning to quit without getting the job done.

In three hours they’ve cleared out just about one-sixteenth of the south field. At this point Mr. Hanlon parks the truck and comes around the back to inspect their work. He tips his hat down lower to shield his eyes against the glaring September sunshine (it’s been hot lately; hotter than usual for this time of year, like autumn is forgetting to wake up), nods to himself a few times, and smiles this secretly prideful smile as he claps Mike on the shoulder. “Not bad, boys. Six a’ youse is better than three, for sure. Not bad. Let’s get you some lunch, then, yeah?”

They take turns scrubbing off in the laundry sink (Eddie spends twice as long in there as anyone else and eventually Richie has to squeeze into the space beside him so he can wash himself “before the dirt seeps into my pores and I become a mud-monster”) and afterwards, they follow Mike back outside to where he’s spread a checkered blanket in the shade of a weeping willow, each carrying a tray or a pitcher. 

_ ‘What _ ** _is_ ** _ that?” _ Bill asks unthinkingly when Mike takes the top sandwich off the pile for himself, looking a little different than the others (which are mostly ham or egg-salad, it seems).

_ ‘Peanut butter and onion. It’s good, but most people don’t like it.’ _

“Mikey… what the _ fuck _ is wrong with you?” Richie asks, curling his lip and pretending to gag when Mike takes a bite of the sandwich.

“You wanna try?” Mike offers, holding the half-eaten sandwich out to Richie and smiling through a mouthful of peanut butter when he reels back so fast he flips over backwards. “No? That’s alright.” And he keeps eating his sandwich while the rest look on in awe.

Their “lunch break” is meant to last an hour, only fifteen minutes of which is spent actually eating.

The rest is spent doing the exact dumb teenage boy shit anyone would expect a bunch of dumb teenage boys to do, like scaling bales of hay (and leaping off of them, stupidly, damn near earning them trips to the emergency room), bothering the sheep, and playing Cops and Robbers. 

Mike tells them all about troublesome pests on the farm while they’re sprawled in the shade of the corn stalks at the edge of the west field -- Richie’s off pestering some of the barn cats and no one except Eddie has advised him against it (“You’re going to get scratched and then get gangrene and then get your hand amputated; I’m just saying; I’m just warning you,” was not an effective deterrent). Crows and rodents, mostly, but the cats are pretty good at keeping rats and mice at bay, he explains, as they all nod along in partial understanding. Cats hunt mice, of course -- they all know this because of _ Tom & Jerry, _ but few of them have actually seen it in action. 

“But there’s nothing they can do about the crows. Crows are… _ big, _ and mean, and the cats don’t stand a chance, y’know? They know better than to go after a crow. And Larry, Moe, and Curly don’t bother them anymore because... I think they can _ tell _ that they’re scarecrows and not _ real _ people.”

“What about the other birds?” Stan asks, and Mike shrugs, folding his hands behind his head again to watch tufts of white cloud pass by overhead. 

“I don’t think the scarecrows bother them much, either. Cats get some of them, I guess.” Eddie finds that when Mike talks about the cats killing _ anything _ it aches deep in his core, but he knows it isn’t coming from himself.

Mike is the kind of person who places value on all life. It’s easy to see in him. It’s easy to see even without the shine. Mike’s got something in him that gleams gold and it’s on display for everyone to see -- not just in his smile or in his eyes but in the way he interacts with the world around him. The way he’s so loving and gentle in the process of placing fireflies into jars, the way that, to this day, he refuses to do any harm to the sheep on the farm. The way that even when he talks about crows (there’s a quiet fear accompanying it, always, and Eddie can _ almost _ reach in and visit the faded memory), the same all-encompassing love still exists. 

All God’s creatures.

_ ‘You know what sounds like a good solution to your scarecrow problem, Homeschool?’ _ Richie’s still chasing cats by the hay bales but he’s attuned to the conversation nonetheless. 

He also doesn’t wait for a response from literally any of them before straightening up, brushing some stray hay off his front, and sprinting straight into the cornfield, screaming at the top of his lungs. The other five Losers present pop up into sitting positions one by one to watch leaves and husks rattle in his wake, and droves of birds take flight from all the hidden places within.

The scream dies out and the erratic swaying of corn stalks slows somewhere just beyond their line of sight. A few birds settle back into the field a ways out from where Richie pauses for breath. _ ‘You Losers coming or what?’ _

_ ‘Give ‘em hell from me, boys.’ _ Bev says from far, far away, and it propels the rest of them to their feet, and forward, straight into an alien world of plants taller than any of them, from which birds in all shapes and sizes take off to escape the crazed, unified hollering of a group of rowdy teenagers in their most natural state: doing dumb shit. 

Eddie throws his arms out in front of him to knock leaves out of the way as he flies through the field, the screams and shouts from the rest of the Losers pressing in from all sides and the indignant shrieks of disturbed birds raining down from overhead as they take to the skies. The joviality _ zaps _ through them all -- a _ ping _ off each chest until they’re all full to bursting with mirth. They taper off one by one to suck in a breath and then the shouting starts up all over again, paced randomly, dancing all around him in an untraceable migration as everyone runs wild through the field.

They’re all breathless and light-headed by the time Mr. Hanlon is calling them back from a lunch break that’s _ definitely _ surpassed the allotted hour. They’re also all smiling ear-to-ear as Eddie rounds them up and leads them all out of the labyrinth of corn stalks they’ve gotten themselves lost in. 

_ ‘Away we go, Compass!’ _ Richie jokes, hands light on his shoulders as he keeps pace close behind him. _ ‘Get us home, boy.’ _

“It really isn’t hard. I don’t see what the problem is.”

_ ‘You’re just a lot better at this than the rest of us,’ _ Ben offers mildly, also sticking close behind him -- for a fleeting moment, Eddie’s heart swells big at the idea of being the _ leader _ for once, of occupying the coveted position that Bill has always filled, ever since they were just tykes. The position Bill was _ meant _ for (the Turtle made it so) but that wouldn’t carry any weight if the rest of them weren’t around to support it, each with unique talents of their own.

And to have Big Bill, his hero, his leader, his best friend, trusting Eddie enough to allow _ him _ to lead the way once in a while… 

The Turtle made it this way, and it made them perfect, and Eddie wouldn’t trade this for the world, no way, he thinks.

“Best damn buncha scarecrows I ever seen, I gotta say,” Leroy Hanlon says as they emerge from the west field, somehow more mud-streaked and rumpled than before. He nods towards the ancient Ford where it waits, idle, by the churned-up earth from the start of the potato harvest.

It takes them sixteen days of weekends, afternoons, and the occasional skipped class (for those who could pull it off, and Mr. Hanlon doesn’t tell them _ no _ when they show up at his door at noon on a school-day, so they take advantage), but there comes the moment the field is cleared. They’ve given it a once-over, and then a _ twice- _ over, and gathered up any stragglers, adding them to the barrels that they haul out of the truck bed and into the barn at the end of each day. Mr. Hanlon spends a few minutes counting and adding before reaching into his wallet and distributing a few rumpled dollar bills to each of them. There’s a burst of chatter from inside about trips to the Aladdin, cash for snacks and candy, finally getting that new Walkman, savings for college _ (boring), _ that dies down quickly as Mr. Hanlon thanks them and shakes each of their hands in turn.

Eddie decides then what he already knew a long time ago: he likes Leroy Hanlon. He’s got that same golden-shine charm that draws everyone to Mike. A little faded (whether with age or experience, or both, Eddie may never know) but it’s bright enough to draw him in regardless. Sincerity. Generosity. An appreciation for the world around him that few folks can be bothered with these days. This is where Mike gets it from -- why Eddie sometimes sees him in the same light he's always seen Bill. Derry can wear them all down as much as it wants, but it can't take away what _ makes _ them, not with years and years of evil and abuse and bigotry and everything that makes this town just a little worse than the rest of the world. Mike has inherited a resistance to that evil. Eddie can understand, better than ever, the way he's attracted to the good-hearted shining-armoured knights in their friend group. The _ magnetism. _That’s a good word from Ben’s library books, and it’s a perfect word for how he’d describe his friends.

When they shake hands, a little liquid gold seeps into his veins and the other thing he _ knew _ but never registered clicks into place. That he’s safe here. That the Hanlon’s don’t have much, but that makes them all the more willing to offer what’s theirs. Nothing will hurt him here, not if this man has anything to say about it. No matter what, he can come to this place and he’ll be welcomed and accommodated and, perhaps most importantly, taken care of. And he realizes all that with a dizzying _ whoosh _ as that unpolished-gold glamour trickles into his bloodstream and sets him alight.

Mr. Hanlon lets go and the feeling disappears just like that. Eddie tucks it away for safe-keeping, because something -- maybe not inside of him, but from _ somewhere _ \-- is telling him it’s important.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave me comments; I'll simply wither away and die without them :'(


	14. The birthday mishap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The realization that if I continue to update only once a week it will be roughly.... 9 months before this fic even comes CLOSE to being done.  
I'll aim for 2 updates a week from now on.
> 
> CW:  
-Description of vomiting  
(If you want to avoid this, stop after "when a second wave swiftly follows in the wake of the first" and resume after "He doesn’t even really think about his birthday until later." Other than that it's just mentions.)

* * *

November 1990

* * *

Eddie Kaspbrak knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. He’s got his bags packed and ready to go and he’s wisely chosen not to mention _ anything _ else about the sleepover, lest Sonia change her mind. He’s made _ extra _ sure not to question her agreement with the whole thing in the first place. Maybe she’ll remember that she never lets him do anything, ever, and that she’s supposed to be smothering him, not letting him stay at someone else’s house for a night _ (especially _ not that _ dirty _ Tozier boy). 

Clearly, she has lost her fucking marbles, so he’s really just rolling with it at this point. 

The night before, he’s too giddy to sleep, which is dumb because it’s not like he hasn’t slept over at any of his friends’ houses before. He’s slept at Richie’s plenty of times, even. He’s just never done so with actual permission from his mother, or without sneaking, or lying about his whereabouts, and _ certainly _ never without an argument of some kind -- or, in most cases, begging and pleading and making all kinds of outlandish promises in a desperate bid to get her to relent. _ This _ is new. Maybe because the sleepover is for his birthday. He doesn’t know. He’s choosing not to question it. 

Regardless, he doesn’t get to sleep until pretty late, tossing and turning and wondering what they can do. Fourteen isn’t a lot. It isn’t a special age like ten and thirteen and sixteen, and not particularly profound like eighteen and twenty-one. It’s just a normal birthday, but Richie still went to the trouble of organizing something just for him -- of talking his mom into helping him buy a cake, and making sure there wouldn’t be any balloons, and getting all the other Losers in on it. Eddie can see into his head easily enough, to the way he spends the evening proactively setting up the basement for the whirlwind of Losers that’s about to sweep through it. Eddie knows about the cake in the fridge and the painstakingly slow bike ride back from the A&P after picking it up for four dollars and change. He knows there’s a little shoddily-wrapped gift tucked into the mess on the shelf in Richie’s closet, but he doesn’t know what’s inside. 

And he thinks, tomorrow he will wake up and spend the day with his friends. Tomorrow he’s going to enjoy himself _ without _ that nagging fear of, _ what if my mom finds out? _ hanging over his head, guillotine-blade poised casual and threatening as ever. He’s going to gorge himself on cake and whatever the hell it is that Richie talked Maggie into cooking for them. And they can all lounge around the basement playing video games and telling dirty jokes and drinking more pop than Eddie’s mom would probably let him drink in his whole lifetime. They could build a fort with blankets and play flashlight tag, or turn out all the lights and play Murder in the Dark -- or, if the weather holds, and tomorrow is as sunny and warm and not-November-like as today, they could slip on sweaters and sneakers, and rush outside after sunset to play Sardines. 

He thinks that would be a good birthday. 

He falls asleep, well into the morning, with those thoughts in his head, uncaring of the six other people attuned to those very thoughts, a few of whom having also stayed up well past their regular bed time. 

And he’s woken no more than four hours later by a _ tap-tap _ on his bedroom door.

“Eddie?” Sonia calls as she swings the door open, while he groans and rubs sleep from his eyes, trying to find it in himself to sit up. It’s _ so fucking early. _

He blinks up at her a few times as she approaches and he still hasn’t quite processed _ being awake _ (the fucking sun has _ barely _ risen) when he’s swept up in a hug and she presses loud, wet kisses to both his cheeks, several times over. 

“Oh, my Eddie-bear,” she croons, kissing his forehead and his nose and he tries not to cringe, because it’s the exact time of year people start infecting each other with all kinds of nasty viruses and this is a sure-fire way to pass it on. “So grown up. Happy birthday! I made you a special breakfast.”

He follows her down the stairs, still barefoot and pyjama-clad, still rubbing his eyes and yawning, to find a place at the kitchen table set for him; a plate piled high with pancakes and bacon. There’s a glass of orange juice beside it and as he sits down, she tips some scrambled eggs onto his plate and sits across from him. “Oh, wow,” he chokes out, not entirely sure what to do with this. She hasn’t made him a proper breakfast in _ years. _ He usually just settles for a bowl of some god-awful bland cereal she buys for him that doesn't even do much to quell his hunger, or a Pop-Tart, which he isn't even allowed to touch because they're _hers_ but sometimes he sneaks one anyway and then feels guilty about it (funny, though, that in spite of her suffocating concern about his well-being at all hours of the day, she can’t wrap her head around ensuring he has something with _ nutritional value _ to put in his body -- she won’t buy a head of goddamn broccoli but _ God forbid _ one of his friends offers him a can of Pepsi). This is _ different. _

_ Good _ different. ‘_Putting in some effort’ _ kind of different. He gets this aching smile on his face as he breathes a tiny, “Thanks, mommy.” 

Her filed-sharp nails leave little marks on his cheek when she squeezes it but he knows she didn’t mean to. “Anything for my baby. Now, eat up,” she says, the rickety chair protesting loudly as she settles down across from him and folds her hands neatly on the table top. “You’re a growing boy.”

He does so quite willingly, scarfing down syrupy pancakes and greasy bacon like his life depends on it. They aren’t amazing (nothing like what Maggie Tozier can make), but that’s hardly fair to her. She _ tries, _ at least, and she’s never been a great cook -- he suspects that might be what spawned her affinity for T.V. dinners and quick-and-easy packaged foods in the first place. The pancakes have a slight bitter taste to them, but he’s far from ungrateful. She went to the trouble of doing this just for him, and this is a situation wherein he wants her to know that he appreciates the effort. It’s not every day he gets a hot breakfast. It’s not every day he gets food that didn’t come from a package or the microwave. It must be the second coming of Jesus if he’s getting _ both. _

“So, you’re having a sleepover with your little friends tonight.” 

Eddie’s brain does this fascinating little jig where it tries to grind to a halt and work a thousand times faster all at once. _ Uh-oh, _ it helpfully supplies, _ looks like the special breakfast was just a way to soften the blow. Guess who’s changing her goddamn mind about letting you live your own life? _

_ Shut up, _ he tries to tell it, but it _ is _ his own brain, after all.

He nods mutely, a forkful of pancakes halfway to his mouth. _ No sleepover. No friends. No pop and ice cream and video games and Sardines. Why does he even bother? _

“Who else will be there?” she asks it so _ casually, _ so unlike the way she usually interrogates him until he buckles under the pressure.

It takes a second for him to realize that she has _ not _ just told him outright that there will be no birthday party for him, no siree; that he’s going to spend today like all his other birthdays, forced to laze on the sofa watching _ Wheel _ and _ Jeopardy _ with his mom (if he’s been good, she’ll let him sneak in a re-run of _ Cheers _ or _ Three’s Company, _ if they’re on, because it’s his birthday, after all) and they eat the same kind of boring T.V. dinner as usual, even though _ she’s _ the one who always tells him bad eating habits can kill you. 

No, no -- she didn’t say that at all. “Oh,” he says, eloquently, then sets his fork back on his plate. “Um, the usual people. Stan, Bill, Ben, and Mike.”

“And that Richard Tozier boy? The one with the dirty mouth and _ awful _ attitude?” She doesn’t look _ as _ disgusted as usual when she talks about him, but there’s that terrible flash in her eyes still when she says his name. 

Eddie doesn’t see much wrong with his attitude, but he knows better than to disagree with her, so he gives a meek nod and says, “Well, it _ is _ at his house.”

Sonia sighs. A great, gusty thing that makes the loose papers scattered on the table flutter. “Eat, before your food gets cold,” she demands, and when he does she continues, “You know I don’t like that nasty little boy. He’s no good for you.” And she sniffs, quite literally turning her nose up as if he’s present for her to dismiss.

“No-- no one else has room in their house. I swear, if I could have a party somewhere else I would.” But he doesn’t swear it, and he knows he’d pick Richie’s house over anyone else’s any day, even if he can’t quite explain the reasoning behind it. Maybe he’s just more comfortable there, more than he can be in Bill’s house anymore _ (it’s cold there now, cold like the snap-freeze in the dead of winter, like the terrible chill that filled his entire being each time he encountered _ ** _ It_ ** _ last year) _ even though that used to be another of his favourite places to be.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full!” Sonia snaps. Eddie swallows so fast he almost chokes. Her tone changes abruptly to that sickly-sweet drip. “I know you would, Eddie. I know. I just don’t trust boys like him with a little thing like you. He’s getting so much bigger -- you’re so frail and sickly, Eddie-bear. Too easy of a target. I do wish you’d stop spending time with him.”

Eddie’s stomach is starting to ache something fierce. He doesn’t want her to revoke her permission for him to go to his own birthday party, but he doesn’t know how to talk her down when she starts getting like this. Tears spring to his eyes without warning so he takes advantage. “I’m sorry, mommy,” he says, eyes shining pitifully. “I just really want to spend time with my other friends, just for today. I’ll stay away from him, I swear, I _ promise. _ I’ll keep away from him and only be near my other friends. Please let me go.”

Now Sonia stands (the chair groans again) and waddles over to him, pulling his head against her bosom and swaying gently back and forth. It makes that odd churning deep in his belly somehow worse, and he wills it away, trying to calm the nerves that are riling him up in the first place. “Oh, my baby,” Sonia murmurs, breath hot against the crown of his head. “Of course you can go. I’m only warning you, Eddie. That boy’s no good for you. He’s a bad influence. You’ll see.”

Eddie starts to nod, but stops himself. “Okay, mommy,” he tries to say, in a desperate bid to appease her, but clamps his mouth shut around a crude wave of nausea. He must have eaten too fast, he thinks despairingly, when a second wave swiftly follows in the wake of the first. 

It’s all he can do to shove his mother away with all the strength he has and make a mad dash for the washroom, where his knees slam into the linoleum in the same moment vomit splashes into the toilet bowl.

It doesn’t stop there. He _ literally cannot stop _ puking, even when all the food he just ate has been ejected from his stomach and he’s only coughing up unfortunate little spouts of bile, and after that he’s stuck dry-heaving over the toilet, halfway to sobbing, tears soaking his cheeks and dribbling down his neck to stain his shirt collar. He’s barely aware of the other Losers frantically asking after him, too focused on the strain in his back as he heaves again (his mother’s hand rubbing firm circles between his shoulders but only succeeding in making it hurt worse), the repulsive burn of acid in his mouth and at the back of his throat, the _ stench _ wafting up towards him. Absolutely nothing comes out and he gives an awful, broken whine that has his mother cooing and stroking his hair. 

He feels wrung-out and _ weak _ \-- all through his whole body, just pathetic and spent and _ exhausted _ to his core, and wonders if maybe he’s been doing this for _ hours _ at this point -- so when his stomach clenches again and all the muscles in his back tense painfully and he gags for what must be the millionth time, he loses what little handle he still had on himself. “Mom,” he cries, tiny and childish, and she curls over him more, her bulk practically crushing him, hands rubbing and touching all over him in attempts at comfort.

“Oh, my poor baby, by poor baby boy,” she’s whispering, fingers rubbing over his flushed cheek. A bead of sweat rolls off his forehead and down the side of his face.

His stomach clenches _ again. _

He doesn’t even really think about his birthday until later, when the dreadful heaving has mercifully subsided and his mother has escorted him back to his bed, still fussing, and tucked him in with a cold cloth over his forehead and a bucket on the floor nearby. “I don’ wanna go to the hospital,” he manages to get out, as she smooths out the cloth (he doesn’t feel feverish but he doesn’t have the energy to protest). The _ last _ thing he wants right now is to be stuck in the emergency room for countless hours while he feels like this. It’s _ always _ the last thing he wants, but he really, truly means it this time. He’d sooner die than let her drag him there (not that he could put up much of a fight in this state). 

“Okay,” she agrees, and he doesn’t have it in him to be shocked.

It’s when the door closes behind her and his eyes are slipping closed, body fighting to get much-needed sleep, that Mike’s voice breaks through the fog with a harried cry of his name.

Then Bev, too, and Richie Stan Ben Bill--

_ ‘What the hell happened?’ _ Bev is asking, he can picture the furl of concern in her brow and her upper teeth digging into her lip as she wonders after him from miles and miles away, and it’s enough for him to crack a smile -- not because he wants her to worry, but because he misses her and it’s nice to remember the little things that make up the whole when she isn’t present. 

_ ‘Got sick,’ _ he explains simply, eyes drifting shut again. 

_ ‘Oh, you don’t say?’ _ Stan barks (the eye-roll is also easy to picture, being that he sees it every day of his life). 

Richie, helpfully, chimes in with a, _ ‘Dude, that was fucking awful. I threw up.’ _

_ ‘Me, too. A lot.’ _

_ ‘We’d noticed,’ _ Mike points out mildly.

Richie’s next interruption is far more subdued. _ ‘I dunno how to explain this one. My mom thinks I’m for-real sick and she’s probably gonna make me cancel for tonight. Can’t exactly tell her my Turtle-given telepathic bond with my best friends made me puke because one of _ ** _them_ ** _ puked.’ _

_ ‘You’re gonna have to cancel for tonight anyway. I think _ ** _I’m_ ** _ for-real sick.’ _

And then he falls asleep before the conversation can continue, and when he wakes up late into the afternoon and reflects on all he’s missed out on, he allows himself the indignity of shedding a few tears over it, even though it feels deeply selfish of him.

*

_ ‘Richie, go home, I don’t wanna get you sick.’ _

_ ‘I have the immune system of a god, Eddie Spaghetti. Don’t doubt my power.’ _ And, oh, he doesn’t, but he’d never forgive himself if any of his friends caught whatever he has and had to go through what he went through this morning. Richie clearly couldn’t give less of a fuck, because he’s weaselling his way through the window before Eddie’s even managed to get to his feet to lock him out.

“Dude, no, get the fuck back in bed, what are you doing?”

“Shh!” **_‘Quiet,_**_ my mom’s home.’_

Richie’s eyebrows wiggle. _ ‘Oh, I know. Just finished raiding her panty drawer.’ _

Eddie puts himself back into bed and pulls the covers over his head to drown him out. _ ‘Okay, goodbye now.’ _

“No, no, wait, Eds, pal, buddy, I brought your present!” 

And he thinks -- a small part of him thinks -- that really could have waited until tomorrow, or even Monday. The _ rest _ of him (the part he listens to) is swept up in the compulsion to throw the covers off and watch Richie rummage around in his backpack for that package of shiny blue gift-wrap and too much Scotch-tape. _ ‘Want me to serenade you again?’ _ he asks, grinning ear-to-ear as he holds it out to him. Eddie bites his lip against his own grin as he remembers Richie’s artful delivery of _ “Happy Birthday to You” _ from this day last year. 

_ ‘Can’t let my mom hear us. She doesn’t like you much.’ _

“Oh, but she _ so _ does.” Richie flicks his tongue _ obscenely _ even though in his head he’s voicing his reluctant agreement with Eddie’s statement -- Sonia Kaspbrak has made her dislike of Richie extremely clear from the get-go and she doesn’t seem ready to change that opinion any time soon. 

When Richie sits beside him on the bed, Eddie wants to tell him to keep his distance so he doesn’t pick up any of his germs. He doesn’t. He shifts to make more room for him and starts peeling the wrapping paper off his gift, until--

_ ‘You got me a first aid kit?’ _

_ ‘Sure did! Open, it, kemosabe, see what’s inside.’ _

Well, the first thing inside _ definitely _ doesn’t belong in a first aid kit, and Eddie makes a noise somewhere between a giggle and a gasp as he lifts it out from atop the neatly organized compartments of cotton balls, gauze, medical tape, tweezers -- anything he can imagine needing to treat an injury. “Oh, God, is this another one of your mixtapes?” Don’t get him wrong -- Richie makes fantastic mixtapes. He has great taste in music (Eddie won’t permit himself to tell him that). It’s just that about ninety-nine percent of the tapes he makes are terrible jokes, like the one that’s got _ Take On Me _ as many times as it would fit on side A and _ I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles) _ as many times as it would fit on side B, because for some reason that’s _ just so funny _ to him. 

The “funny” part is envisioning Richie calling up the radio station to request those songs and then sitting in front of his radio with a cassette ready to go until they finally came on, or _ better: _ just waiting day in and day out for either song to be played, and praying to God he’d be ready when it happened. 

Even _ funnier _ is imagining Richie doing _ just that _ several times over for each song, enough to fill about 30 minutes worth of tape on either side.

He wouldn’t believe Richie had that kind of patience (or the ability to sit still that long) if he didn’t know that cassette existed. Or any of the many, many others he’s amassed over the years (and, in some cases, distributed to friends on special occasions). 

“You bet yer ass it is, Spaghetti-man! An extra-special edition from yours truly.” Richie’s doing a decent job of whispering for once in his life.

Now, the second thing -- the _ second _thing in the first aid kit that doesn’t belong there elicits a mixed reaction from him. 

_ ‘Did you know Machen’s does custom stitching?’ _

_ ‘Obviously they do; their gig is _ ** _literally_ ** _ sewing stuff,’ _ Eddie retorts, rolling his eyes as he turns the fanny pack over in his hands. _ “Eddie Spaghetti” _ it reads, in bold, looping script, crimson against the black fabric of the pouch. 

“I figured you could use it for-- I mean since you used to have two, right -- I thought maybe you could keep first aid stuff in this one and your… pills or whatever in the other. So it’s not such a mess trying to get out a Band-Aid, ya know? And you can use the big first aid kit I got to stock the little one,” he adds, tapping the fanny pack with his index finger.

“Oh,” Eddie says, taken aback by the… dare he say it? _ Thoughtfulness _ of the gift. The _ practicality, _ too. The custom embroidery. The mixtape he’s _ sure _ will make him snort-laugh the first time he listens to it and then maybe every time after that. 

There’s the creaking of furniture downstairs. Slow, heavy footfalls as his mother moves about the house. He can’t help the big sigh that tumbles out of him. “Thanks, Rich. I really appreciate it.” He doesn’t need to say much more because Richie can see what he wants to say already, clattering around nervously in his head. His eyes are full of starlight as he pulls Eddie into an ill-advised hug -- Eddie tries to warn him about infectious diseases but Richie won’t be deterred, because _ of course _ he won’t, because he’s _ Richie. _

“You are _ veeery _ welcome, _ muchacho,” _ he says in his Pancho Vanilla Voice, which is a catalyst for a Stan-worthy eye-roll from Eddie as he continues, _ “De nada, amigo, de nada,” _ as he extracts himself from the hug and tiptoes back to the window. “Happy birthday!”

He blows a kiss on his way out the window and shakes with laughter when Eddie’s ears turn red.

  
  


His mom is long asleep by the time he digs his Walkman and headphones out from the space under his bed. He feels just fine now. Much better than this morning, and it aches a little (maybe a lot) to think he could be with his friends right now; could be out playing Army Tag in the cool night air and snacking on the bare leftovers from Richie’s Halloween stash (because let’s be real, there probably isn’t much left even after barely three days -- that kid eats like a machine). If he could have felt like _ this _ all day, he wouldn’t be confined to his room right now with nothing to fill his stomach but a handful of saltines and nothing to fill that void in his chest but distant birthday wishes from the Losers he’s practically desperate to be with. 

With their plans cancelled, they’ve all taken to filling their sudden free time with menial tasks. Bill is writing them a story on his clunky typewriter, putting the occasional question about a word or an idea or a plot point out there for the rest of them to answer. Richie had said something about sneaking a peek at his dad’s magazines and then disappeared from their reach, and that had been quite some time ago. It leaves Eddie feeling a little lonelier, if only because he was supposed to be over at that house tonight (they _ all _ were), not _ here, _ like this, achy and hungry with only a handful of soda crackers on his nightstand to sate him if needed. Stan’s holed up in his room trying to teach himself Yo-Yo tricks with only marginal success, and at a whiff of Eddie’s distress he extends his sympathies. _ Sucks to be sick on your birthday, _ they’ve all agreed, with the addendum, _ we could try again next week. _

But Eddie knows already that today had been a special exception because it was a special day -- birthdays only come once a year, after all _ (‘Every four years if you’re born on the wrong day on a Leap Year,’ _ Richie would say). Next week is just going to be a regular old weekend, and a regular old weekend doesn’t warrant any special treatment, now does it?

No -- he can kiss his party plans goodbye. They could try again next year, perhaps. 

The exceptions are going to be days he lies to his mom about his plans and his whereabouts, but he doesn’t like those kinds of sleepovers as much because he’s always on edge, waiting for her to catch on and come bursting into Richie’s house and drag him home by his ear. He hates those days as much as he loves them.

Now that night has fallen and everyone has found something to occupy the time they were supposed to spend at Richie’s house, he pops his newest cassette into the Walkman (this also has “Eddie Spaghetti” written on it, but in Richie’s blockish, nigh-illegible printing), pulls the headphones down over his ears, and starts sorting through his new first aid kit while he listens.

As he expected, it’s one of those mixtapes designed just to make him laugh (and probably to make him a little miffed, because Richie’s got a bad habit of sneaking in songs he knows Eddie likes and that Eddie doesn’t want anyone to know he likes). He snorts to himself when the very first song that plays is _ Eddie My Love, _ a Chordettes classic and one of those tunes Eddie insists he despises every time Richie starts trying to sing it or it happens to come up on the radio. 

“A-hole,” he mutters to himself through a smile as he tries to prioritize things he thinks he should carry on him for everyday use -- _ the scissors or the tweezers? Not room for both. _

He’ll be sure to tell Richie his cheesy mixtape is awful when he sees him next -- complete with _ Romeo’s Tune _ and _ It’s Raining Men, _ Richie has truly outdone himself this time. And he’s sure Richie will just ruffle his hair or pinch his cheek and say, _ “I knew you’d love it, Eds!” _ probably in some Voice or another -- he thinks that he looks forward to it.

* * *


	15. The "overbearing mother" problem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW:  
-slightly inappropriate parent/child relationship (AKA Sonia being way too far into Eddie's business to the point of it being uncomfortable for him)  
-mentions/discussion of sex, nudity, and genitals
> 
> Short chapter, sorry.

* * *

He hates that, at fourteen, he’s still barely developed any kind of independence.

But there are still things his mother doesn’t trust him with, and even though he knows it’s just because she _ cares _ and she _ worries, _ it still drives him up the fucking wall. 

It feels awful, being naked in front of her lately. His body is nothing like it was when he was the baby she always reminds him about. The one she bathed head to toe. Whose diapers she changed every day. 

He's different now. He's grown up, but she still insists he needs her help.

_ If you touch yourself there, you'll get cancer, _ she tells him, every time she sits in the washroom, or waits outside the door, or barges in while he’s in the middle of shampooing his hair to make sure he isn’t doing anything inappropriate in the shower. 

He wonders, when she talks like that, if that's what happened to his father, but he knows better than to ask. 

And then comes the newest addition to these conversations she has with him when she shoves the shower curtain aside to check on him or to help scrub him down against his will, when he’s squeezing his eyes tight shut and wishing he could melt into the drain. Not the part about the hair being normal, or how she'll have to ask his uncle to teach him to shave next time he visits, so Eddie is prepared once facial hair becomes an issue. 

No; the part about _ relationships. _ The stuff that would have been in the sex ed classes she pulled him out of. The hours he spent sitting in the VP's office while his classmates stayed behind and actually _ learned _ something. Stan always told him he wasn’t missing out on much and that their teacher wasn’t allowed to talk about the _ real _ stuff, so it was all things they already knew (did they?). Richie and Bill would relay fantastical tales of the real-life strippers Mr. M. would invite into the classroom to teach them about female anatomy, or about putting a condom over their entire arms ("A banana," Stan would say, rolling his eyes. "They're just screwing with you").

But _ now _ his mom wants to talk about it. _ Now, _ while he's stark-naked, trapped with her, wishing he could hide the body he doesn't recognize and is _ far _from comfortable with from her curious eyes. 

"--never, ever touch a girl that way, not without Mommy's permission, do you understand? You could still get sick if you're not careful."

_ Was his dad not careful? _ he still wants to ask. He doesn't. He isn't allowed to talk about him. Not ever.

He nods, cracking one eye open when he feels her hands disappear from his body. He inches under the water to wash away the soap she used and accidentally makes eye contact. Something in her gaze hardens in a way that makes him think he's in trouble. _ How? _ All he did was agree to her terms.

Can she hear what he's thinking? That almost makes him shudder. If he thought having _ Richie _ read his thoughts was bad--

"And _ never," _ she stands, leaning into his space, monstrous bulk nearly crushing him in the cramped space of the shower, "even _ think _ about touching another boy that way. That's the fastest way to get AIDS. You stay away from boys who do that."

Eddie's brain definitely short-circuits. He splutters for long enough that his mother, still steely-eyed, backs out of the shower spray and starts toweling off her soaked arms. He doesn't know where to start. "Do… do what? S-_ sex?" _

With _ boys? _

"Can-- can you _ do _ that?" He doesn't quite mean to ask, but some lava-hot monster squirming in his chest demands an answer and in his panic he nearly flings open the door separating him and the Losers’ thought-processes. _ Not now. _ Now is a bad, _ bad _ time for them to read his thoughts, while he tries to imagine how the _ fuck _ two boys would have sex.

Hell, he doesn't know how sex works _ at all _ yet, except what “Boogers” Taliendo had told him a few years back (he isn’t convinced of the accuracy of his tale, in the first place) and that he’s supposed to touch a girl’s boobs, and that the whole idea makes him nauseated. 

"No," she says, cold. "You _ can't. _ That's why the boys who try it get AIDS and _ die." _

And Eddie…

Eddie doesn't want to die. 

"Okay, mommy," he says, even though bile is crawling up his throat and that deadly curious monster that just woke up is burning him from the inside out.

He knows better than to turn away from her prying gaze, even though he’s sure she can _ see _ the burning. It must show bright red on his cheeks and chest. He’s less concerned with her seeing his private parts on display like this and more concerned about her overhearing the questions rattling around in his brain. 

Seeming satisfied, she slides the shower curtain closed and he releases a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The bathroom door clicks shut. 

He still kind of wants to melt down the drain. Something like guilt claws its way into his heart next to the lava-flow of the questions and concerns he’s afraid to voice, and he tries to convince himself he doesn’t understand it. He’s _ quite _ sure he doesn’t understand it.

*

This is _ not _ how he wants to spend his Saturday morning. He should be doing normal teenager things like sleeping in or watching the morning cartoons or biking up to the clubhouse to join the rest of his friends for whatever bullshit antics they’re planning to get up to today (Richie was talking about finding a transistor T.V. yesterday and they all agreed it would be great to have a television in the clubhouse).

No, he isn’t doing any of those things. He’s grocery shopping with his mom, because she’s in one of those weird moods where she doesn’t want him out of her sight even for a _ second, _ because of all the things that might go wrong, which led to a very humiliating argument when he tried to take a piss before they left the house and she insisted he leave the door open.

He should’ve just taken off running the moment he was out the front door. He considered it, but he knew the consequences would far outweigh the merits, there. 

She’s mostly lingering in the same general area, huffing and puffing under her own bulk, demanding he retrieve things for her because he moves faster and she just wants to get home already. He wonders how she goes to work, ever, if she struggles so much with simple things like grocery shopping, and if perhaps, maybe, she should try going on a diet, and he isn’t careful about keeping his thoughts hidden away from everyone else. 

There’s a distinct, _ ‘Yowza, Eds!’ _ from Richie that has him grinning as he gathers T.V. dinners into his arms and runs them back to where his mom is waiting with the cart, and Mike half-heartedly scolds him for disrespecting his mother (but Eddie can sense his dislike for Mrs. Kaspbrak even though he tries to hide it, which is a little bit of a shock coming from him). 

_ ‘Do you think maybe I should get brown bread?’ _ he asks the group at large after his mom sends him to the baked goods section with no instruction besides, “Get bread.” _ ‘I mean, it _ ** _is_ ** _ healthier, right? It’d be better for both of us.’ _

_ ‘You get whatever your little heart desires,’ _ Richie tells him cheekily.

He senses Bill’s amusement and the little swat he gives at Richie’s shoulder. _ ‘And whatever gets you to the clubhouse faster. You’re missing _ ** _Captain Planet.’_ **

_ ‘Our world is in peril,’ _ Richie insists, melodramatic as always. _ ‘It’ll be in peril until Eddie Spaghetti gets his ass over here.’ _

“Okay. Okay. I’m getting the damn brown bread,” he mutters, a little to himself and a little to them, and when his mom complains about it he points out the benefits of getting whole wheat bread and tells her that if she really wants white bread she can go get it herself. Then maybe regrets that immediately when he inadvertently flips that mystery switch in her brain from “overprotective and controlling” to “righteous fury” and, like, _ yeah-- _ that was kind of rude and absolutely dumb.

“Oh, Sonia! Good morning!” Oh, thank fucking God. Some lady Eddie’s probably seen around town before is wheeling a shopping cart with a squeaky wheel towards them, oblivious to the rage-fueled staring contest they’re engaged in. “This must be the sweet little Eddie you told us about. My, you look so grown up compared to the pictures your mom has.”

The realization strikes him, as his mom turns to face this lady, one hand coming up to rest on his back, that he’s going to be here for a _ while. _ His mom may want to go home, but the only thing she likes more than sitting on her La-Z-Boy watching _ Wheel of Fortune _ is milking sympathy from people about her _ beloved baby boy _ while simultaneously bragging about all his accomplishments _ despite his condition. _

There’s a sharp _ prick _ on the back of his arm where his mom’s poorly-manicured fingernails bite into the skin. A saccharine smile adorns her face when he blinks up at her, losing his train of thought.

“Luanne says hello, Eddie-bear.” She looks to her friend. Coworker? Acquaintance? Who knows. “Sorry, he hasn’t been feeling the greatest lately. Might need some extra sleep.”

“Nice to meet you,” Eddie offers lamely, not holding out his hand for this lady to shake because he doesn’t _ know _ her, and he doesn’t want to spend half an hour sanitizing his whole arm because some stranger with strange germs touched him. 

Internally, he’s bitching to his friends about his situation, and they all think it’s just _ hi- _ larious, because they’ve all been in his shoes, so he just grins and bears it when _ Luanne _ pulls him into a hug against his will and puts her hands in his hair to ruffle it up and he only cries later, in the shower, with the scalding water turning him red. Only a _ little, _ and only after his mom has finished pestering him and left the room. 

He doesn’t make it to the clubhouse to watch T.V. with his friends.

* * *


	16. The flu mishap

* * *

January 1991

* * *

Eddie wakes up feeling like his head is stuffed with cotton and his throat’s been subjected to some rough treatment with a sheet of sandpaper. There’s a surge of panic as he imagines the hospital visit and the tests and the waiting and his mother’s yelling and the doctors’ waning patience. The “prescribed” bed-rest that really just means the latch on the other side of his door sliding into place and going stir-crazy while he dreams of crawling out the window and disappearing forever. 

If she realized he was missing, though…

If she realized he was missing she’d go batshit. She’d worry herself into insanity. She’d call the cops, probably, or demand bloodhounds be set out after him to find her baby, and he _ knows _ she just loves him and wants to keep him safe but it drives _ him _ crazy, sometimes. She’s overwhelming. He isn’t made of glass and he doesn’t need to be coddled and he’s perfectly capable of handling himself. He knows this. Sonia _ might _ know this. 

She wants to keep him safe, and healthy, so when she realizes he’s sick, he’s going to be subjected to the horrors of a trip to the hospital where she’s hated, just for the sake of reassuring herself that her baby, the light of her life, is going to be okay.

That’s got to be better than the embarrassment he’d cause himself by sneaking away and making her flip out. 

All this, in the millisecond or so it takes him to realize that this stuffed-up sick feeling isn’t coming from himself at all, but rather from Richie, who is _ also _ just now waking up and starting to complain about it.

_ ‘It _ ** _is_ ** _ flu season,’ _ Ben reminds him placidly, as Richie bitches about _ ‘ow my fucking head’ _ and _ ‘holy shit I’d kill for a glass of water.’ _

They get confirmation that Richie isn’t going to up and die on them _ (‘Probably a cold,’ _ he’d eventually admitted, resigned to staying in bed all day) before getting ready for school, and the rest of them make promises to pick up his homework from any of their shared classes. 

Eddie is restless all day. So much so that in three separate classes someone sitting beside him begs him to stop bouncing his leg or tapping his pen. Richie’s never been one for sitting still and all that pent-up energy is overflowing into the rest of them, it would seem. He’s too achy to get out of bed and his mother is home with him, doing the motherly thing and fawning over him the way Sonia does sometimes. She brings him hot soup and a cold compress and tells him he likely has the flu _ (‘Told you,’ _ they collectively taunt, and he mentally flips them all off), but she doesn’t drag him to the hospital and make a big scene and flaunt his fragility and Eddie is almost envious. 

Almost.

He doesn’t _ want _ the flu, after all, and he’s perfectly happy with his own mother, who loves him just the same. 

His feet carry him in the direction of Richie’s house once he splits off from Bill on their walk home (safety in numbers). He goes willingly, convincing himself all the way that he can’t possibly contract anything from Richie because he did the sensible thing and got his flu shot already. Maggie Tozier is more than happy to let him in, sweeping him up in a grand old hug and offering him some of the roast she’s making as she hangs up his scarf and coat for him. This has been increasingly common lately -- this _ thing _ where she acts like a parent rather than a puppet. It makes him wonder if It’s influence over Derry is fading, which in turn makes him wonder if the shine might fade, too, if Maturin deems it unnecessary. The damn Turtle is cryptic at best.

It's never been, _bad,_ necessarily. Just enough that sometimes she floats through her days with a far-off look in her eyes and Richie doesn't know whether to be concerned or battle it out for her attention. She's not _her,_ those days, but not quite someone else, either. It's rare, anyway, and when she isn't dealing with _that,_ she's overtly affectionate to the point of Richie feeling the need to pretend at being annoyed by it -- _"Mom, stop trying to hold my hand, I'm twelve years old, for Gods' sakes,"_ he used to try, and continue holding her hand anyway. But Maggie has been nothing but doting and maternal for _months,_ now. Whether that has something to do with them defeating the fucking clown or maybe with Hannah being away at college most of the year, he couldn’t say, but it makes Richie happy in ways he’s good at keeping secret. You have to really look to see. Or, rather, _ feel. _ The Derry-isms -- some of them -- are fading. 

He selfishly wishes it would fade from his mother, then curses himself for the thought. It’s who she is. She’s protective. She wants what’s best for him.

There’s nothing wrong with that.

He ascends the stairs to Richie’s room as Mrs. Tozier promises that dinner will be ready in an hour or so, if he’s able to stay. The sound of Richie hacking reaches him before he even gets to the landing. Each deep cough resonates in his own chest and he winces sympathetically, seriously reconsidering his willingness to expose himself to a flu bug when his mother is so _ certain _ that he’s of too fragile a constitution to so much as participate in a gym class, and he often finds himself wondering how right she may be. But Richie already knows he’s here (can sense him with the shine, and shoots him a playful, _ ‘What’s crackalackin’, Eddie Spaghetti?’), _ and besides, he’s got to share his notes from class and the outline for their history assignment while he has a chance -- he’ll probably be on house arrest again when he doesn’t return home in time for dinner and his mother blows a fuse. He could call and warn her but she’d demand him home without hesitation. Sometimes it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission, right?

It occurs to him that he could just share Richie’s school stuff telepathically, but he’s convinced himself it wouldn’t be the same.

“I’m so damn congested,” Richie says by way of greeting when Eddie slips into the room and the door clicks shut behind him. “I could hock the _ biggest _ loogie right now.”

Eddie makes a face at that, sliding his knapsack off his shoulder and dropping it to the floor with a dull _ thud. _ “That’s _ so _ fuckin’ gross.”

Richie snickers and it quickly devolves into yet another coughing fit. It feels harsh and _ wet, _ uncomfortable enough to have Eddie grasping at his chest despite the fact that he isn’t even the one who’s sick, here. 

“Do you need anything?” he asks once the coughing dies down. Richie pulls his hands away from his face and shakes his head -- Eddie’s already pulling the tiny squirt-bottle of hand sanitizer out of the kit Richie gave him for his birthday. _ ‘No way,’ _ he chastises when Richie reaches for it. _ ‘Keep your germy fuckin’ hands to yourself.’ _

Richie tries to laugh again while Eddie pours an absurd amount of berry-scented hand sanitizer into his waiting hands (it smells less like berries and more like if one berry had been left to soak in a vat of rubbing alcohol, but it’s the thought that counts). It rattles terribly in his lungs and Eddie winces. _ ‘I don’t need to go to the hospital. Stop looking at me like you’re planning my funeral.’ _

Eddie wasn’t, but now he’s considering it and that probably makes the panic-stricken expression worse. Something _ primal _ and awful kicks awake deep inside him at the idea. 

He can’t handle life if it’s missing _ any _ of the Losers. He doesn’t want Richie to even joke about that. He doesn’t say so, because his heart is _ going-going-going _ and giving words to the fear might make him faint. Instead, he says, “Please cough into your fucking elbow. Were you raised by apes?”

Richie, for as miserable as he looks, bed-ridden and pallid, breathing just laboured enough to keep concern alive in Eddie’s gut, still manages to have the vigor to make dumb cartoon-monkey noises and pretend to scratch his armpit and head at the same time. 

“You’re dumb.”

“Oh, well, he _ does _ try folks! He does try his doggone _ best, _ just to be the-- the absolute _ dumbest--” _ At this point he trails off into another bout of hacking, nasty, _ phlegmy _ coughs that make Eddie want to give the hospital a shout himself, no matter how damn much he hates that place.

_ (Could get sick just being here, and then that’s where you’ll end up, isn’t it?) _

He actively chooses not to care, instead moving to perch on the side of the bed, well out of the blast-zone of any bodily fluids Richie might be expelling any time during his visit. “I brought your homework and stuff.”

_ ‘I know.’ _ Of course Richie knows; he can read his damn mind. He gives a gaudy wink at Eddie’s annoyance, lower half of his face still buried in the crook of his elbow. “You gonna help me get all caught up or what?” he croaks after a while. 

“If you cough on me, I’ll kill you myself,” he says as he drags his backpack over and starts riffling through his notes for the day to get to the content for their shared classes. 

“‘Course you will. I’ll keep my evil flu germs all to myself, you prissy hypochondriac bi--”

“Do you want my notes or not?”

Eddie does stay for dinner. They eat sitting cross-legged on Richie’s bed with _ The Lone Ranger _ playing on the television set, and at every opportunity Richie howls, _ “Hi-yo, Silver! Awaaay!” _ and spews half-chewed food everywhere, and every time Eddie reprimands him, even though he’s laughing. 

He _ isn’t _ laughing when the front door of his house flies open before he’s even got a grip on the knob, his mother’s apoplectic, sweat-streaked face bursting into view. He thinks he can see steam rising from her reddening skin where the crisp winter air hits it, sizzling and disappearing into the frizz of her unkempt hair. “Do you have _ any _ idea what time it is?” she demands.

He glances at the setting sun in the distance. Shrugs. “I was having dinner with--”

“You didn’t think to _ call?” _

He’s trembling, but it isn’t from the January-cold prickling across his cheeks and weaseling its way under his coat. “I thought you’d say _ no.” _

“You’re damn right I would. Get inside.” She doesn’t exactly make it a choice, fat hand clamping around his upper arm and yanking him into the house, door slamming shut behind him.

She’s _ seething _ as he shrinks down into the smallest possible version of himself, wishing he could still be at Richie’s house, attacking everything in his room with disinfectant wipes and pretending to be Tonto during episodes of _ The Lone Ranger _ they’ve all but memorized.

_ (“Git-um up, Scout!”) _

And then it just crumbles away, just like that: all the righteous mother-anger disappears and she’s blubbering, hunched over into herself with her face buried in her hands, while Eddie watches the transformation, awe-struck. 

“Why do you hate me?” she asks when she uncovers her face.

He can’t quite get a handle on what she’s feeling (it has to be pretty mixed up for the tone to change this quickly), so the accusation throws him for a loop and he flails for a moment, still tucked back against the wall as if he might be able to sink right through it if need be. “I _ don’t,” _ he says after much stuttering that makes him sound an awful lot like Bill on a bad day. “I don’t hate you mommy.”

“You _ do! _ You _ must, _ or you wouldn’t do these things to me!” 

_ What things? What things, ma? _ he wants to ask, but he’s got a pretty good idea anyway. 

“No phone call,” she barrels on, gluttonous tears rolling over the folds of her neck now. “No warning. You could have _ died. _ Do you know how much stress that puts on me? I want you to be _ safe, _ Eddie. How can I keep you safe when you do things like this?”

“I-I-I’m sorry,” he whispers -- he should comfort her, he’s sure. Offer a hug and a kiss because those are the things that placate her, but he’s still stuck to the wall, cowering out of the way of her bygone rage as if expecting it to make a resurgence; like there’s tacky glue coated all over the hall and he’s gone and got himself caught in the trap. 

“You don’t take your pills when I ask, Eddie. Do you know how much that hurts me? All I’ve ever done is try to keep you safe and healthy and now you won’t even try to _ help _ me with that. You never tell me when you won’t be home on time. You’re always out with those… those _ horrible--” _ Here she dissolves into incoherence, gasping sobs bursting up out of her too quick to be safe, and he’s forced to forget all about any counterpoint he might have thought up (that he _ does _ take his pills again; that he doesn’t tell her when he’ll be out late because she’ll always tell him _ no _ and he’ll always have to listen; that his friends are _ not _ horrible; that they’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him and he really, honest-to-God thinks he wouldn’t be able to survive without them, somehow). He peels himself off the glue-trap wall and goes to her, tentative, wrapping his arms around her hulking middle and feeling her whole body shudder under the force of her hysteria. 

“I’m sorry, mommy. I’m sorry.” He repeats this while she envelopes him in an embrace that’s fit to break his ribs, her sticky tears dribbling into his hair and onto his shoulder.

“You hurt me, Eddie,” she tells him, low and wretched in his ear. “I wish you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“I’m sorry,” he says _ again -- _ it’s all he seems able to say -- as her inky-black sorrow washes over him and makes tears spring up in his own eyes. “I’m so sorry. I’ll tell you next time I'll be out late, okay?"

The grip around his ribs loosens and he sucks in a breath he hadn’t realized he was struggling for. “Thank you.” Sonia peppers kisses all over his face, her lips still wet with her own tears (he prays there isn’t snot, there, too), holding him in place even as he starts squirming. “I love you so much, Eddie-bear. Mommy loves you so much.”

*

If he makes it a quick stop, she’ll never have to know about it. 

Of course, he has to reject Mrs. Tozier’s offer to stay over for dinner again, politely explaining that he’s expected home but thanking her for her hospitality nonetheless. 

“You’re a sweet boy, Eddie,” Maggie tells him, towelling off her hands over the sink and opening her arms towards him. He doesn’t hesitate to step forward and allow her to sweep him up in a hug. This isn’t the same as letting strangers touch him -- he’s run the scenario through his head a million times. A “Maggie Tozier” hug isn’t all that much different than a “Richie Tozier” hug, and it’s not as if Eddie’s ever rejected one of those (Richie practically hangs off him like a goddamn koala, anyway). 

She’s warm. Not just physically. _ Inside- _warm. Eddie feels it radiating off of her and when her hands cup his face as he steps away, he doesn’t even flinch. It grows brighter and more potent, that warmth. A smile he could only describe as motherly lights up her eyes and his heart twists fiercely with something he thinks must be envy (but that can’t be right, because his own mother loves him more than anyone else ever could, isn’t that true?)

“He feels better when you’re here. I know it. I could give your mother a ring and ask her to let you stick around.”

_She’d say no. She’d demand me home ASAP. She’d probably quarantine me for being around a sick person. A _**_sick _**_person -- think of your health, Eddie! Think of the risks! You could contract influenza and _**_die!_** “Um, no, that’s alright. I have lots to do at home.” _(No, you don’t. You’ll just lie in bed and stare at the ceiling and talk to your friends in your head, if they’re not busy, or otherwise you’ll just lie there and let the boredom consume you like decay, and wouldn’t this be preferable? You’re never bored around Richie, are you?)_ “Thank you, though. For offering.”

And besides -- Richie is asleep, anyway. He fell asleep just around the time Eddie was leaving school, and he’s been out cold since, the barely-there flashes of his fever-dreams less than a nuisance at the back of all their minds. 

_ ‘Don’t catch polio or anything while you’re there,’ _ Bill is joking lazily (Eddie can see-feel-hear him puttering around the garage in the presence of his father, trying to worm his way into sharing a task, a conversation, _ anything--) _

He almost rolls his eyes, but catches himself at the last second, shooting back a huffy, _ ‘Screw you; why don’t you come deal with him, then?’ _

_ ‘Don’t want to spread it to _ ** _everyone,_ ** _ Eddie. Be realistic.’ _

Bill is such a shit-disturber when the mood takes him.

He’s quiet all the way up to Richie’s room, so as not to rouse him, though there isn’t much point. He’s sleeping like a rock. There are used tissues scattered across the bed _ (ew) _, a lukewarm bowl of broth and half-empty glass of water on the nightstand. He shed his pyjama shirt at some point (Eddie’s not sure a ratty old band tee counts as pyjamas but Richie is adamant it does), and it’s caught on the knob of the drawer. His Game Boy blinks helplessly up at Eddie from under one hand.

Eddie sighs. He bought gloves for a reason, he supposes.

Beside the glass, he sets the mask he purchased from the Rite Aid on his way here, then, on the other side of that, the childish-looking construction-paper card they’d all written well-wishes in, plus the assortment of gifts and treats each Loser had contributed. A pack of cough drops, a lollipop, a tiny Etch-A-Sketch for chasing away boredom, an even tinier jar of honey from a local apiary (Mike had explained, upon witnessing Eddie’s confusion, that honey soothes the throat, and Richie’s throat was definitely starting to feel _ mighty _ sore). 

Then he pulls on a pair of latex gloves, also a Rite Aid purchase, and sets to work. Richie has to have gone through at least five boxes of tissues to have amassed a collection of this calibre. Eddie makes all kinds of faces (and thinks all kinds of gross things) as he collects them all in the utility bucket Richie uses as a trash can. _ ‘There isn’t even a fucking bag in it!’ _he laments, amidst the laughter of his so-called friends. 

_ ‘You chose this,’ _ Stan helpfully supplies, and mentally, Eddie shoots him the finger. 

He takes the tissues to the downstairs trash, because the bucket has started to overflow, deposits the unfinished bowl of broth into the kitchen sink on the way, and brings up a replacement glass of water, all while Mrs. Tozier busies herself in the kitchen and shoots him the occasional smile. 

Richie is still dead-asleep when he slips the Game Boy out from under his limp hand, shuts it down, and wipes it down with disinfectant. Still asleep when he unhooks his shirt from it’s trap on the nightstand, folds it up, and places it at the foot of his bed. Still asleep when Eddie slides his glasses off from their wildly askew position on his face and sets them on the pillow beside him.

Doesn’t flinch when Eddie stands over him, watching his chest rise and fall where Richie’s back is facing him, feeling the fever-heat radiating off his skin, wondering if it would _ truly _ hurt to stay (yes, it would; it would hurt his mother, and the last thing he wants to do is hurt his mother). 

He sighs. Loudly. He’s been here long enough, he supposes. Long enough that he’ll be expected home any minute, and if he’s _ too _ late his mom will know he was out without her permission again, and then he’ll really be in for it.

It’s not as if Richie’s never had the flu before. It’s not as if he’s going to die from this -- but the thought _ does _ give him pause, for a second time, and he hesitates to leave. Unfurls the comforter from where it’s bunched around Richie’s knees and settles it back over him. 

_ ‘I’ll be back,’ _ he tries to promise, but he knows it might very well be a lie, and Richie is too busy dreaming about turtles and that one scene from _ Risky Business _ and an ill-placed flight of stairs to hear him, anyway.

* * *


	17. The skateboard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way my Tumblr is (also) ghostnebula so feel free to bother me there
> 
> (and as usual your comments give me life, and motivation, and I look forward to them always)

* * *

May 1991

* * *

Richie doesn’t get much from his end outside of a tickle of giddiness overlaid with apprehension and a glimpse of the ancient sign on  _ The Cycle Shoppe _ (ancient as in from the 50s, which is plenty old to his young teenage brain), complete with peeling and faded letters in a bold, old-style typeface. Once upon a time they were an army green outlined in red, all uppercase and attention-grabbing, inviting passersby to stop and take a gander through the shop window at the many bicycles and paraphernalia on display.

Now the letters are more grey-and-orange; wood that’s in desperate need of replacing peeking through in some places. He hasn’t been in or near there since purchasing his own bike at the tender age of nine with his mom and dad trailing dutifully behind, ready to support whichever choice he made in the end. 

Eddie’s there now, for some fucking reason, leaving a trail of mixed feelings like snail-slime all the way up to the front door as he tries to figure out exactly what the fuck he’s doing -- as unaware of his own motivations as everyone else listening in. He already owns a bike, and it’s a bit old and has one wonky tire, sure, but nothing that warrants replacing. If he were planning on buying a new front tire, Richie doubts he’d be so excited-but-afraid about it, and besides, he would’ve done it eons ago with all the birthday and Christmas and odd-errands money he’s got saved up in a piggy bank in his room. Every little dollar bill that comes in a stamped and sealed envelope on a special occasion, wrapped in a card with a somewhat impersonal greeting from a family member (one of his mother’s many sisters or one brother scattered across the coast; his paternal grandmother who claims to miss him dearly but never makes the effort to visit; an aunt or uncle from that side he doubts he’s ever met; the list goes on, and while Eds has always appreciated the gestures he knows that’s all they are -- gestures), every one of them goes into that piggy bank and the money comes out only a little bit at a time. Only enough to get him a stack of pancakes at Rosa’s or a couple ice cream cones for his friends during Canal Days or, when Richie has been particularly persuasive, as is his wont, a few rounds of  _ Street Fighter _ at the arcade and a good old Saturday matinee at the adjoined Aladdin Theater. 

If he wanted a new tire on the front end of his poor old bike -- so Richie would stop cracking wise about penny-farthings in fantastically-executed accents -- he’d have gone out and done it within a few days of the incident. 

It’s been almost two years.

If Eddie’s looking to get something at the crumbling  _ Cycle Shoppe, _ it isn’t planning to be a new tire or a new bike or even a new chain or some oil. Richie, fortunately, is just finishing up a purchase of a bucket of popcorn from the Aladdin just down the road -- no ticket, no drink, just some popcorn to munch on while he wastes the beautiful sunlight of a weekend in late May next door, playing video games endlessly. This is fine, he has decided, because he is not alone and therefore not in as much danger from their  _ favouritest _ bullies as he would otherwise be. Mike’s easy to convince to follow any of the Losers around because he’s got a heart of gold, would do anything to keep his friends safe, loves spending time with them, and is also built like a brick shithouse. He’s nearly fifteen and looks like he could wrestle a grown man and win, which he denies vehemently at every turn but attributes, reluctantly, to the strenuous physical labour that life on a farm entails. Even though he’s been given his grandfather’s blessing to attend high school with the rest of them, he still goes home at the end of the night and hauls hay and repairs machinery and probably does stuff like bench-press livestock until he looks like a literal fucking Adonis and Richie’s mouth goes dry when he takes his shirt off to swim with them.

Puberty is really giving him a run for his fucking money, lately.

All he has to do is flutter his eyelashes playfully and ask in that Southern Belle Voice of his if Mike could please, please accompany him to the arcade for an afternoon, and Mike will smile sunshine and laugh all perfect and warm and say, “Yeah, ‘course. Let me just finish up with this dingy old truck. This is the third time in a month it’s broken down and this time I swear I’m gonna get to the root of the problem.”

And Richie would often, in this situation, say something about inviting Eddie over to help him figure it out, because Eds is good with stuff like that -- has put Richie’s bike back together more times than he can count and built soap-box cars and taken apart appliances in his garage just to put them back together for as long as Richie can remember. Before October of 1988, Richie remembers days they could be found lounging in the shade of a tree in Bill’s front yard, or otherwise splayed out on the steps of the front porch, downing popsicles one after another and waiting to go to the public pool; waiting, that is, for Eddie to get his damn head out from under the hood of one of Mr. Denbrough’s vintage cars, learning all the internal workings and asking questions in that over-eager, light-up-a-room way he sometimes gets, face an amalgamation of awe and excitement. They’d watch from their places and talk about things like schoolwork, sibling troubles, that thunderstorm the other day, the Bowers’ gang, until Stan would show up and ask what the hold up was, or Georgie would come running out of the house red-faced and jittery, a towel and a pair of tiny swim trunks in his hands, crying through a mouth that had recently gifted several baby teeth to the notorious Tooth Fairy, _ “I wanna come, too! I wanna come swim, Billy! Can I come swim, too! Please?” _

_ Don’t think about Georgie, _ Richie insists through the cold weight forming in his chest. Bill’s grief has etched itself so deeply into his very soul that it’s spilled over into all the rest of them. Makes Richie feel like it had been his own baby brother mutilated and gobbled up by  _ It. _ Hurts like all hell to give thought to.

Then they’d tell Eddie to get his rear in gear, half-dragging him away from the toolbox Mr. Denbrough had probably tasked him with retrieving a wrench or something from, and he’d piss and moan the whole way to the pool about waterborne diseases and little-kid pee and open sores and how his mom would have a cow if she caught him there again. 

But he hadn’t bothered Eddie this morning to come help, because Eddie had been a stormcloud on the horizon of all their minds, and Richie knows deep down that’s part of why Mike hadn’t questioned Richie’s willingness to go out of his way to ask  _ him _ instead of Eddie, Richie’s more frequent travel companion. Something was up and they weren’t going to poke that bear with a stick unless the bear wanted -- Eddie is prone to a lot of shouting and aggressive gesturing and foot-stomping if anyone pushes his buttons during one of these moods, and they avoid it not because it’s scary (it is, in fact, quite adorable, but none of them would say it out loud), but because they always feel a little guilty afterwards for prying that kind of reaction out of him. 

Bev seems to be the only one even remotely capable of talking him down in these situations without sending him into a fit, so they leave it be until she can deal with it. 

Eddie’s been holed up in his house, stewing, since around ten this morning. Now he’s waltzing into  _ The Cycle Shoppe, _ which admittedly now sells a lot more than just bicycles (scooters and roller skates and the like, too) but is still dedicated to its original business more than anything. He’s going in there with a kind of turmoil that’s toned-down since this morning but enough to have him and Mike glancing at each other with raised eyebrows.

_ ‘Curiosity killed the cat,’ _ Mike jokes, gaze flickering from the windows up front, where they can see southeast down Center Street and  _ almost _ to the storefront Eddie just entered, then to the wall that separates the Aladdin lobby from the arcade. 

_ ‘But satisfaction brought it back,’  _ Richie counters easily, already marching out the glass double-doors onto the pavement, sights set on the shops down the way and, more specifically, the one Eddie’s  _ up to something _ in. 

They’re just just rolling up to the bike-rack outside, Richie balancing the popcorn-bucket in the basket on his handlebars, when the doors chimes open and Eddie’s standing there with a grin on his face and a skateboard in his hands. A dark purple, matte helmet is buckled snugly under his chin and his grin barely falters when he spots them dismounting their bikes. “Hi, Rich! Hi, Mikey!” he chirps, fiddling with the “used” sticker on the skateboard until he gets a corner and peels it off. 

“Edward Francis Kaspbrak, what in the fresh hell is that?” Richie asks before he can stop himself, sure his eyes must be deceiving him. Eddie is the person who lectures about all the dangers of skateboards,  _ not _ the person who buys one on a whim. 

Something hard and indiscernible passes over Eddie’s face, but then it’s gone and the grin has become a little more devilish. “My mom said she’ll never let me doing something stupid and dangerous like skateboarding in my whole life,” he tells them, almost proudly, as if that’s in any way an explanation.

_ ‘So, you… got a skateboard?’ _ Mike asks, not moving his mouth nor his body; staring Eddie down with wide eyes and pursed lips and raised eyebrows. 

_ ‘I’m gonna do it anyway,’ _ Eddie says with a shrug -- a shrug! -- and adjusts the chinstrap on his girly little helmet and bobs his head around proudly for a moment.  _ ‘Wanna watch?’ _

“Do I  _ want _ to watch you eat shit? Are you really asking me that? I’ve already got my popcorn ready to go!” Richie makes a big display of gathering the popcorn bucket into his arms and chowing down on a handful as he finds a comfortable spot on the windowsill. He does not, of course, want to watch Eddie eat shit, because Eddie will probably cry and he can hardly stand to see Eddie cry, but he’s not ready nor willing to make that admission, and in the spirit of whatever elaborate joke Eddie seems to be making, he’ll play along with this stupidity.

Eddie rolls his eyes, planting a fist on his hip. “Not  _ here, _ dumbass. Strawford Park has a skatepark built in the back corner, Ben said. I’m gonna go there.”

It takes a few seconds for it to dawn on him that Eddie is  _ absolutely, one-hundred percent _ serious, which, you know, the outright purchase of a skateboard and helmet should probably have clued him in on. And, well, teenage rebellion has probably been a long time in the making with that kid, so he really shouldn’t be surprised that Mrs. Kaspbrak said,  _ “You can’t do that,” _ and Eddie said,  _ “Yes the fuck I can.” _

If this is going to be his poison, Richie is going to support him along the way. There are worse catalysts, after all. Drugs and alcohol. Bullying and vandalism. Sex and risk-taking (no,  _ wait, _ he’s pretty sure this counts as risk-taking). But if Eddie wants to learn how to fucking skateboard to spite his mother, then he has Richie’s blessing. 

“Okay,” Richie says dumbly, and he starts walking his bike alongside Eddie, occasionally picking popcorn out of the bucket, either to eat or to toss at the dumb  _ (cute) _ helmet until Eddie snaps and chucks a whole handful right in Richie’s face while Richie cackles and tries to dodge. When they finally pass through downtown and arrive at the rusted iron fence that runs the perimeter of Strawford Park, he’s reminded why they never come out this way. This park is  _ shitty _ \-- the goddamn playground has been closed for as long as he can remember. There’s garbage everywhere, and the grass is dying, and the fence is falling down in some places.

_ ‘Is the park shitty because the playground is closed or is the playground closed because the park is shitty?’ _ Bev asks with extra cheek, and if Richie could flick her on the shoulder he would, especially as she tacks on,  _ ‘Which came first, the chicken or the egg?’ _

_ ‘Don’t get all philosophical with me, Miss Marsh. You know I’m too stupid for that.’ _

This seems like the last place Eddie would want to be.  _ He must be having a full mental breakdown, _ is the only explanation Richie can come up with, and supposes that’s all the more reason to try to be supportive. Or should he stage an intervention? Mike doesn’t seem to think so, but he’s just as wary about all this as Richie feels when they settle onto a bench overlooking the cement-lined hole in the ground that makes a pretty sad excuse for a skatepark. No one is here, unsurprisingly. 

This leaves a clear area for Eddie to try and fail to get his board moving. Not a single one of them has any earthly clue as to how skateboarding actually works, so they’re all going off what they’ve seen in passing (by this point all the other Losers have joined in to bear witness to this fiasco, either mentally or, in Bill’s case,  _ on my way right fucking now, there’s no way this can go well). _ Stan and Ben make promises to join them at their earliest convenience. 

They all seem to be holding their breath as, after nearly fifteen minutes of failed attempts at getting started, Eddie finally gains some momentum and swings the foot he’d kicked off with up onto the board. His intent is clearly to keep both feet planted on the board and ride on the little bit of forward movement he’s created until the skateboard inevitably slows to a stop. It’ll be progress, at least. Instead, he leans too far back and the moment he has both feet on his board, he overbalances and tips right over backwards. They all feel the  _ snap _ of his teeth hitting together and the simultaneous jolt as he collides with the pavement.

His helmet comes out of it with a grey-and-black scrape across the back. Eddie does not cry. He gets up, catches the skateboard as it’s rolling away, and plants his feet on it again. Richie freezes halfway down into the cracked and crumbling pit they’re going to pretend is a proper skatepark, watching Eddie struggle to propel himself forward and then get both feet on the board again. 

Eddie tips over backwards a second time, now with expletives bursting out of him all the way down. His elbow gets all scraped up when he lands on it wrong and Richie slides the rest of the way down to join him, throwing glances back over his shoulder at Mike and Bill, whose astonished gazes are fixed squarely on Eddie and his uncharacteristic disregard for his own personal safety. 

Bev warns him firmly not to make a joke about Eddie’s clearly ailing state of mental health as he approaches. 

“Falling for me so easily?” he chirps as he holds out a hand for Eddie to take and hauls him to his feet. “I’m in awe!”

“Screw you,” Eddie grumbles, a little smile tugging persistently at the corners of his mouth. 

“Your mom’s already got that covered.”

Eddie shoves him, as he expected, and then chases after the skateboard that’s still rolling off on its own.

“You want a hand? I got two.” Richie does some half-assed jazz-hands and Eddie flips him off, so he follows right after him while he tries to get on the stupid skateboard again. “Just so you know, you keep putting your feet too far back. That’s why it’s tipping over once you’re standing on it.”

He doesn’t ask permission before leaning down to grab Eddie’s ankle and slide his foot forward, because he’s never  _ needed _ permission, and when Eddie yelps and  _ thwacks _ him good on the shoulder for nearly making him fall over a  _ third _ time, he laughs and pokes him right in the middle of his stomach.  _ ‘Put your other foot up, too.’ _

“I’m not moving yet. Give me a minute.” Eddie swats his hands away when he tries to poke him a second time, snickering through an open-mouthed smile that has his tongue poking out  _ just a bit _ from behind his teeth. His nose gets all scrunched up that way. Richie can’t help but smile back. 

“Now ah’m no expert, Mistah K., but ah’m thinkin’ -- just thinkin’ -- maybe the gettin’ movin’ ain’t gonna be yer biggest problem here. Naw. Naw, ah say… ah say it’s gonna be gettin’ yer feet on that there board the right way, so what say you we give ‘er a bit o’ practice first?”

_ “...What?” _

Now  _ Richie _ snickers, trying to get his fingers in there to jab anywhere on Eddie’s torso he can reach and Eddie squeals and leaps away. “I mean get your damn feet on the damn skateboard so we can practice balancing first, jerkoff!”

“Okay! Damn! Stop tickling me, jackass!” Eddie lets Richie reposition his feet on the board so his weight isn’t too much on one side, then steps back to let him balance there for a minute. 

_ ‘Well at least you don’t feel like you’re gonna fall over now.’ _

Eddie reluctantly agrees that this  _ does _ feel better, and he already feels less like he might tip over again, and when Richie holds out both his hands, palms up, he takes them without question.  _ ‘Keep your feet like that,’ _ he warns as he steps sideways and drags Eddie along with him.  _ ‘Better?’ _

Eddie nods, looking down at his feet as if willing them not to make the wrong move and knock both of them over. 

“Good, now how do you turn left?”

_ ‘You think  _ ** _I_ ** _ fucking know?’ _ Eddie shoots him an incredulous glare.

Richie shrugs. “We’ll figure it out, Mr. Spaghetti-Man.”

  
  


Eddie’s back at it again the following Saturday, this time all geared up with black-and-blue elbow pads and matching knee pads. Richie pinches both his cheeks a little too enthusiastically and cries, “Cute!” while Eddie half-heartedly swats at his hands and grumbles, fighting laughter. “What a get-up, Eds! You look like you’re preparing for your first-ever bike ride!”

“This is close enough,” Stan, who has graciously joined them again, offers. “I mean, he got pretty beat up last time. No offense.”

“Why would I be offended? You’re right.”

Richie just takes it because, honestly? It’s been a weird week. Eddie’s insistence on learning a new (and dangerous) skill just to spite his mother has thrown them all for a loop. He still flips the fuck out when he accidentally touches a piece of chewed gum stuck to a picnic table in the park, but he’s perfectly willing to break his neck doing  _ this. _ Richie’s rolling with the punches at this point. Eddie could voice a plan to drink a cup of bleach and he’d probably just nod along. 

_ “I think you’ve gone looneytunes,” _ is not an option, because Bev said so and Bev’s word is law, so he only shrugs at the look Stan gives him and says,  _ ‘Well, safety first.’ _

He gets back on the board Richie brought with him (he’d wisely asked Richie to store it in his garage, knowing that if Sonia Kaspbrak found a skateboard at her house she would lose her entire goddamn shit -- the  _ bike _ had been bad enough, and had taken years of convincing and many, many tears from Eddie to even be considered). This new protective gear had been easy to explain away as “extra precautions” when riding the bike, which had earned him a suffocating hug and a wet, lingering kiss on the cheek from his dear mother. 

His balance is better this time around, no longer “baby deer on ice” and now something closer to “baby deer on dry land” as he tumbles around the skatepark taking falls like a champ. 

Not only that, but over the course of the weekend they master the art of turning, and make fantastic use of the “handy-dandy” mini first aid kit Richie was  _ so _ smart to gift him (Eddie begs him to shut up every time he points this out, even though he’s smiling). They have a rotating audience of Losers accompanying them on their misadventures and by Sunday night Eddie’s rolling with some semblance of confidence down the sidewalk on Harris Avenue with a gaggle of teenagers on their bikes circling around him, under the guise of keeping him company despite the silent agreement to all be on Sonia-watch -- she would, after all, probably have him institutionalized if she were to witness this phenomenon taking place. 

Eddie’s smiling the whole time, eyes bright and dancing, and even when he tips over and stains his clothes on the freshly-trimmed grass on someone’s front lawn, he’s  _ still _ smiling while Richie helps him up and none of them can resist the swell of pride and exhilaration that’s bubbling up out of him. It just overflows out into their brains and sets them all laughing up the street again, asking for turns on the skateboard and taking pointers from their new “pro” skater, and they just forget altogether about things being able to go wrong, just for a little while. 

* * *


	18. The oversharing incident

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for:  
-recreational drug use  
-discussion of masturbation  
-Richie

* * *

June 1991

* * *

As usual, Eddie cites all the risks they’re taking and all the horrible ways they could possibly die by climbing the Standpipe, as if none of them almost died fighting a sewer clown or almost got gutted by Bowers once or twice or ten times. As if Criss hasn’t tried to run them over, or concussed them with a beer bottle to the back of the head as Belch's car skids past and they dive out of harm’s way.

They just nod and hum and tell him, “We get it,” and keep climbing, pockets weighed down with tooth-rotting candies and little surprises that Richie’s saving for the top.

_ ‘And there’s barely been any maintenance on this thing in, Jesus, I dunno, fucking decades and look how rusted to shit everything is!’ _ Eddie’s adamantly _ not _ touching the railing but his hand still darts out every few seconds to hover above it and they can _ all _ hear the conflict about _ safety vs lockjaw _ cycling around in his head.

Richie sighs and, being the closest to him, sticks out an arm for him to hold on to, if only to get him to chill the fuck out. Eddie, for his part, rolls his eyes, but latches onto him with both hands nonetheless, blunt fingernails carving little crescent-marks into his skin. _ ‘You’re telling me you’ll try to kill yourself on a skateboard but you draw the line at breaking into the fuckin’ Standpipe? Hypocrisy at it’s finest, Eds.’ _Eddie’s nails press a little harder and he sticks his tongue out at Richie, who tries to grab it and gets a deafening squeal in return.

The sticky summer air is more potent once they’re out of the stairwell and emerging onto the open-air gallery that wraps around the top of the water tank. The overlook has fared no better than the rest of the Standpipe -- all rusted metal and peeling paint; water damage on the floor beneath their feet. They have to circle around a few times before deciding on an acceptable spot to settle down. Somewhere with a view of the lights of Derry, brighter as the sun sets, that doesn’t get Eddie all riled up about sitting on a rusty nail, or have Stan questioning their decision to come here in the first place. Stan had, understandably, been the hardest to convince, and had several times been offered an out, and told twice by Mike and Bev _ both _ that there was no need to go _ here, _ specifically. 

It wasn’t so much that Stan had experienced an unusual bout of bravery, but rather that Bill had put a hand on his shoulder and said, aloud and steady,_ “It’s okay to be afraid, you know. We’ve all been afraid. And eventually we all have to face those fears, and if you don’t think you can do that tonight, that’s okay. And if you _ ** _do,_ ** _ we’re here with you.” _

And that had been that, because Stan had just about melted under Bill’s attention and steadfastly agreed that, yes, everyone needs to face their fears eventually, even when those fears were the dead and decaying drowned children conjured up by a monster clown to try to drag him to his death. (Yeah, no sweat.)

“I’m gonna enjoy this shithole town while I can,” Bev reminds them, sitting with her chin in her hands and gazing out over the town, which shuts Eddie the fuck up real fast because this was, after all, her idea, and since it’s her first day back in town for the summer they’re all kind of at her mercy. 

_ ‘What’s there to enjoy?’ _ Stan asks, sincerely, before a big grin breaks out across his face. 

“Nah, you’re right, Stan. The only good thing about this town is us. And the arcade.” Richie lies down beside him, stretching until all the sore spots in his back _ pop _ and relieve the built-up pressure from helping Bev haul all her shit into her temporary living situation (read: shitty, rundown apartment that’s somehow more shitty and rundown than her old apartment). 

_ ‘Rosa’s is pretty nice, too.’ _

_ ‘Derry is just shit in general,’ _ Bill says, firmly and with a finality that has them all slipping back into solemnity. He knows that most of all. Even without the threat of It looming over their heads day in and day out -- even years after the fact, when it all seems like a distant nightmare -- there are still impact craters left in its wake. Unmendable wounds dripping sluggish blood in trails across their lives. Bill knows. Bill can’t ever forget.

They’ve all seen into his head. Bill can’t ever forget.

Richie can help him to not think about it, for a little while (will admit to sneaking into his house on occasion with a bottle of wine stolen from the stash in his basement, if only to make things easier for him). That isn’t the kind of thing that ever leaves you, not really. He’s tried to imagine a life wherein Hannah had been one of It’s victims -- had been snatched away, out of his life, without warning and without explanation and without any good reason. And sure, they’ve never gotten along as well as some siblings do (as well as Billy and Georgie did), but it still _ aches _ deep into his bones. 

So sometimes he’ll catch Bill awake at ungodly hours of the morning, and it isn’t a far walk -- it’s an even shorter bike ride -- so he’ll buck up and steal some alcohol and try to get his friend, his leader, drunk enough to take his mind off the grief he’s carried like Atlas for _ years. _

He sucks in a whistling breath between pursed lips, tasting the stagnant rot of the Standpipe they’ve so cleverly broken into on the air. “So,” he tries, and his fingers curl around the baggie and the lighter in his pocket. “So, any opposition to some good old-fashioned Mary Jane?”

“Richie--” Stan starts, then pauses and frowns. “Are you sure?”

_ ‘The fuck you mean, “Am I sure?” What’d I buy it for?’ _

“I mean are you sure that’s a good idea, up here, with a bunch of people who have never done that before? What if something happens?”

“It’s not hard drugs, Stanny,” Bev says, a little bit comforting and a little bit amused. “No one’s gonna go crazy and fling themselves over the railing.”

_ And that’s just it, _ Richie thinks quietly, tapping his fist against Bev’s, but then Stan gives an uncertain, “No… no, I don’t think I should.” 

_ ‘You don’t have to if you don’t want to,’ _ Bill reminds him (reminds them all), but Richie feels the way his fingers itch to get one of the joints from him and if Mike’s little giggle from off to his left is any indication, so does everyone else. 

Ben takes all the convincing of Bev lighting a joint and holding it out to him with a cheerful look on her face, the kind that always lights up the dark spaces around them. And Stan _ does _ accept, and gives an experimental puff (looking for all the world like God might take him out on the spot for such transgressions) when Bill passes it on to him after a few lungfuls, and then there’s just Eddie, who’s untraceable in his thoughts as ever.

“Earth to Spaghetti Man.” Richie snaps his fingers in front of his face and Eddie scowls, huffing loudly.

“I have asthma, moron.”

“I happen to have it on good authority that you do not, in fact, have asthma.”

The scowl deepens. Richie decides that one more tiny nudge before he drops the issue won’t hurt, so he gives his best puppy-dog eyes and inhales a cloud of the burning, musty smoke before taking the blunt form between his lips and holding it out to him. 

“I’m… Well, I have…”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to. Big Bill says so.” And he knows it’s just light enough for Eddie to plainly see the shit-eating grin that ruins the whole puppy-dog look but he sighs and _ takes it; takes the fucking joint from Richie, _ and that sparks a ripple of shock and curiosity from everyone else because, without saying so, they’d all just assumed he wouldn’t do it. It’s _ Eddie, _ after all, and if the fact that this is a drug wasn’t enough to send him into a fit, then the fact that this has touched every other Loser’s mouth by now surely would. 

But he takes it, and puts it between his lips, and Richie feels the curl of uncertainty in his fingertips that slips through the cracks just before he removes it and says, “Uh, what do I do?”

So Richie grins again and slots himself into the space directly beside him and takes the joint back, says, “Here, like this,” and opens his mind up to let him all the way in (feel what he’s feeling). The tickle _ (burn) _ in his throat and the crawling sensation of the smoke, expanding his lungs just enough to fill them up and the rush of it _ (the burn) _ on the way out. 

Eddie turns big, scared eyes on him, reminding him abruptly of their misadventures in the sewers and that entire summer filled with looks just like _ this one. _ It rattles through him like getting hit by a transport truck comprised of bad memories and fear fear _ fear _ and protective instincts and holding his friends while they cried. Cried for lost loved ones and fears brought to life and the icy grip of things like abandonment and ill-expressed love that held their beating hearts in place. The feeling isn’t good. It shudders through each of them in turn and Richie forces himself to again say, gentler this time, “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“I want to,” Eddie says quickly, but the sentence is missing something. A quiet omission. It was probably important. His eyes flick up to Bill, who’s watching him as intently as the rest of the Losers Club, and seals up all the cracks so that Richie thinks it’s _ definitely _ important.

He doesn’t push the issue. Eddie’s developed this terrible habit of closing himself off, or even outright running away, when pushed. They’ve learned to stop asking about his drawn-out absences from their gatherings or the erratic convolutions of his thoughts and emotions whenever he’s out of their sight and things start to leak through the barriers he’s put up. 

He just lets Eddie take the joint back and attempt to replicate what Richie just showed him, and then thumps his fist on his back when he immediately falls into a hacking fit, internally cursing Richie and, like, _ that’s fair, _ he thinks in response, now just rubbing Eddie’s back while his eyes water and his nose runs.

_ ‘I knew it was gonna burn but not _ ** _that fucking much!_ ** _ Are you trying to _ ** _kill_ ** _ me, asshole?’ _

Richie laughs and wipes some of the tears away, pinching his cheek in the process. “You get used to it after a while, Eds-baby.”

And, to be fair, this isn’t exactly quality shit. He bought it off Jonesy for $20 and even Jonesy himself said it was pretty crappy and that’s why he was selling it, but it’d still get the job done if you smoked enough. Just felt (and kind of tasted) like sandpaper, or maybe just outright sand. And Richie isn’t notorious for his excellent decision-making, so he’d taken him up on the offer and spent a couple of nights hanging out the window in his bedroom doing exactly what Eddie’s doing right now and still going back for more. 

Bill tries to push the pot on Stan again but Stan shakes his head, tightly coiled curls bouncing, still wide-eyed as when he first pressed the joint between his dry lips and barely inhaled anything. _ ‘Someone needs to stay sober enough to make sure you idiots don’t hurt yourselves,’ _ he explains, heart thrumming quick between his ribs, and they accept that as it is so they don’t end up sending him into cardiac arrest. After all, he’s conjuring up thoughts of Richie’s first misadventure with the substance without really meaning to, bombarding them all with memories of vivid dreams set in peanut-butter rivers that rivalled even the Turtle’s ability to draw their attention, and while that isn’t really a fair comparison to make (he’d taken an edible from Jonesy that time, and disregarded his warnings to only try small pieces at a time), they can all understand why it makes him wary.

Stan’s always tried to be the goody-two-shoes his parents expect him to be, anyway. Drugs don’t fit that mold. 

Bill passes it on to Mike instead, then starts digging into their candy stash and passing stuff around. “What’s the plan for the week?” Mike asks, exhaling a little cloud of smoke in the process. _ ‘Or are we just winging it like usual?’ _

“Clubhouse needs some repairs,” Ben starts for them, looking pointedly around. “I could use some help with that.”

“Help? Thought you were, like, a world-renowned architect at this point. What assistance could we _ possibly _ offer?” Richie asks, dramatic as always, feigning flattery as he flutters his hands about his face. 

“Just extra sets of hands.”

Richie stands abruptly and salutes, marching in place (Eddie narrowly avoids a knee to the face and smacks his shin for his troubles). “Well, aye, aye, mister General Haystack sir! Give us your commands!”

“Remind me again why we let him come with us?” Stan asks, now also smacking Richie, from the other side, and all Richie does in response is give a chuck (or so he would call it) and start to half-jig where he stands. 

“I’m the only one who isn’t too chicken-shit to smash a lock with a rock, Lieutenant Urine, that’s why.”

“Have I told you I hate you today?”

Richie blows him a kiss and then returns to his seat, can smacking firmly against the concrete and sending a little shock across his tailbone that has Stan thinking about karma with a sly little smirk while Richie reaches over to flick him good on the shoulder. 

The moon is well up in the sky before any of them even consider heading home. 

*

It’s inevitable that one of them gets caught eventually. Somehow not the biggest surprise it was going to be Bill.

They’re _ teenagers, _ after all. Still kids at best, though few of them are willing to admit it _ (they’re plenty grown up, obviously; practically functional adults). _

Bill slips up and Richie takes it for the _ riotously funny _ mishap that it is, pushing his buttons until Bill isn’t even _ embarrassed _ anymore and everyone else is so busy pleading with him to shut up that they’ve forgotten all about what happened. 

What happened was Richie was minding his own business, playing his Game Boy at the kitchen island while he snacked on a bag of somewhat-stale potato chips, when he felt it. Familiar in a not-so-distant way -- he’s jerked it before, anyway. Imagines most of them have at this point, being that their hormones are running amok and no one their age is exactly famous for their impulse control. 

There’s the sensation of curious attention turning towards Bill from all around, like ears pricking up. A faint, _ ‘What was that?’ _ drifting by through the bond. Then that even-less-distant familiarity of the feeling that tells him, _ yup, _ that sure _ is _ what Big Bill was doing, even as he drops the handheld device just from the sudden rush of it. 

Then mortification as Bill realizes he let that leak through into the shine for all of them to feel. 

_ ‘My oh my, Mistah William DEH-nbrough, ah sure hopes you was tinkin’ o’ me jus’ now!’ _he cries, in a Voice that really just sounds like him no matter how hard he tries. 

_ ‘I am going to fucking die,’ _ Bill thinks back, barely acknowledging the joke he’d thought was quite good. 

Bev is fucking _ laughing _ at him, in between assurances that it’s okay and _ ‘that’s perfectly normal, Bill, it’s _ ** _fine.’_ ** Mike starts laughing, too, after a beat of stunned silence from his end. 

_ ‘Oh my god, I hate you all so much.’ _

_ ‘Nothing wrong with a little pickle-tickling. A little tugging the slug. Waxing your carrot. Crying on the toilet.’ _ If he was with Bill he’d be digging an elbow into his side, all crowded up into his space with a manic grin on his face that’s begging him to laugh. Instead he’s sat at the island still, Game Boy beeping at him periodically, wearing that manic grin but with no ribs to slam his bony elbows against.

Bill groans loud enough for it to reverberate all through the shine and his mortification increases tenfold. _ ‘I’m not crying on the fucking toilet, Richie, but I’m about to be crying in my bed if you don’t stop.’ _

_ ‘Nothing wrong with being a little sensitive, either, Billy. Some people cry after sex.’ _

_ ‘Bet ten bucks _ ** _you_ ** _ do,’ _ Stan remarks, in the same moment Ben huffs out a good old-fashioned, _ ‘Beep beep, Richie. Take it easy on him.’ _

_ ‘Be honest, though, who _ ** _do_ ** _ you think of while you poach your egg? Marilyn Monroe? Anthony Perkins? Eddie’s mom?’ _

** _‘Not_ ** _ funny, Richie. Kinda hard to talk my way out of this one, by the fucking way. She thinks I’ve got appendicitis now.’ _

_ ‘I’m _ ** _ so_ ** _ sorry,’ _ Bill whines, and Richie laughs hard enough that he topples right off the kitchen chair he’s perched on, taking the bag of chips down with him, and his dad comes in from the living room to ask what’s going on.

“Nothing at all. I’m right as rain, daddy-o,” he says between puffs of laughter, and his dad gives him a _ look, _ of the sort he often receives when he acts this way in public (the one from strangers that asks, boldly, _ “What the fuck is wrong with this kid?”) _ but of course it’s got that twinkle of amusement behind it that Wentworth’s always got when he’s confused by his son’s behaviour. 

_ ‘"Bustin’ makes me feel good!"’ _ Richie sings along, pointedly, while he’s lying in bed that night -- a little bit aloud, but mostly through the empty alleys criss-crossing between them through the shine -- listening to the Ghostbusters theme on a set of oversized headphones, volume high enough that his mother would complain about hearing damage if she were awake. It’s late (it’s always late -- he doesn’t bother going to bed before midnight during summer break, because he’s not a fucking sissy, despite what Victor Criss might say) and most of them have settled in for the night. Mike’s reading _ Fahrenheit 451 _again -- Richie can hear the story playing by like background noise through his head -- sat up with a dying flashlight and pillows propped behind his back for support. Eddie’s been tossing and turning for upwards of three hours now, confined to a hospital bed for monitoring at his mother’s insistence (they all sent their sympathies for his plight and Bill apologized about a hundred more times). Bill’s silent, shut off from the rest of them, but Richie knows he’s awake all the same, just like he knows when Bill needs him to sneak him a few sips of wine and bring along a shoulder to cry on. 

Right now, though, there’s a spark of embarrassment again, but it’s small under the flame of irritation, and Bill hisses into the dark quiet of the shine, _ ‘I swear, I’m gonna smother you with a pillow in your sleep.’ _

_ ‘Oh, is that all you’d do?’ _ He tries to convey the lascivious wink he’d accompany that comment with, and Ben, suddenly awake, too, grumbles crossly, _ ‘I am literally begging you to stop.’ _

_ ‘I’ll stop when I accidentally project my next jerkoff session to you guys, and you can have all the material you want to blackmail me, deal?’ _

Eddie, in his half-conscious haze, bitches, _ ‘Some of us are sleeping, jackass.’ _

_ ‘You sure aren’t.’ _

_ ‘I fucking hate that stupid Turtle sometimes.’ _

_ ‘Careful how you talk about God, there, Eds. He might smite you.’ _

* * *


	19. Sonia Kaspbrak's home remedies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW:  
-conversion therapy  
-brief mentions of vomiting (never actually happens)  
-brief mentions of genitalia  
-Sonia Kaspbrak's "parenting" skills  
-homophobia
> 
> My Google search history is FULL of shit like "conversion therapy techniques" because of this chapter so you better be grateful lmao (also like I'm so sorry, in advance).

* * *

September 1991

* * *

Unfortunately for literally all of them, Richie has mastered the art of doing his Voices using the shine, so they’re never free from his atrocious Pancho Vanilla Voice or his somehow worse Kinky Briefcase, Sexual Accountant, among many,  _ many _ other  _ terrible-- _

_ ‘I’m only sayin’, darlin’,’ _ he drawls, arm slung over Eddie’s shoulders while Eddie staggers under his gangling bulk,  _ ‘that if you think vanilla ice cream is the best, yer head just ain’t screwed on right.’ _

He’s smiling despite himself, one hand curled in the ugly leather jacket Richie picked up at the thrift store over the summer break and refuses to take off, like, _ever._ _‘Well, _**_I’m_**_ only saying that mint chocolate chip is fucking _**_gro--’_** He doesn’t know _why_ it scares him so much (like ice-water in his veins) when he locks eyes with his mother where she was browsing the news stand at the corner. It’s an otherwise warm late-summer day but he is _frozen,_ scrambling to make sense of the burning ember of shame that settles deep inside him and the squinty-eyed, _awful_ look his mother is shooting him, and the sudden electric _buzz_ where he and Richie are pressed seamlessly against each other. 

_ ‘Eddie? What’s--?’ _ But Bill doesn’t have to finish that train of thought, because he follows Eddie’s gaze to where his mother turns away with a  _ hmph _ and continues perusing the papers on display.

He doesn’t  _ know _ if what he’s feeling is coming from him or his mom, but it  _ burns _ nevertheless until it creeps up his face, displays itself bright red across his cheeks and nose, and then even Richie twitches under the weight of it. 

He cannot fathom what it is she’s so mad about, except that he’s with those dirty friends of his she hates so much (that nasty Tozier boy, specifically), but since when is that anything new? 

They get their ice cream, but most of Eddie’s manages to melt onto the sidewalk while he’s distracted with… well, whatever just happened. So  _ what _ if his mom saw him hanging out with the Losers? She doesn’t have to be so grossed out or pissed off or  _ whatever _ about it. 

But if she’s angry  _ now, _ and they’ve already been butting heads for a couple weeks over dumb bullshit like reading the laundry tags correctly and expecting Eddie to mow the lawn despite the fact that she  _ insists _ he’s allergic to grass, what could they  _ possibly _ fight about tonight?

Richie ends up eating the rest of his ice cream because ‘ _ Fuck, dude, you’re just gonna waste it like that?’ _

It’s just the two of them on the way up Kansas Street when they’re all going home after a long day in the sun, and even the shine between them is oddly quiet. Eddie sighs. 

Richie sighs louder. 

“You’re acting weird.”

_ ‘Yeah, probably.’ _ He can’t shake whatever it is that’s weighing down on him. Tries to articulate that his mother was  _ tangibly pissed _ today in a way that doesn’t raise suspicion, but can’t, and by then they’re nearly at his front door.

Richie stops walking long enough that Eddie’s forced to slow down and turn, raising an eyebrow at him inquisitively.  _ ‘You could sleep over at my house tonight?’ _ he offers, tentative and half-formed, like he’s not even sure  _ why _ he’s asking, except that he should.

Eddie gives him the best iteration of a smile he can muster. “Better not. See you later, Trashmouth.”

He’s closing the front door behind him before Richie says anything else, and then it’s just a wretched little,  _ ‘Yeah, see ya,’ _ as Richie finishes the trek home alone.

“Eddie-bear? Come upstairs, would you?” his mom calls, and he kicks off his shoes and complies because what’s the alternative, really?

It’s only as he enters the washroom, where his mom is perched on the edge of the tub with an array of magazines in her lap, that he recognizes that weight on his shoulders for what it is.

Foreboding.

“Close the door.”

“Why?”

“Because we have to talk.”

Eddie eyes the magazines warily. The container of salt on the counter. The empty ice bags hanging over the lip of the trashcan. “About…” he swallows heavily, tries to get a glimpse of the covers of the magazines again, “about what?”

“Close the door, Eddie.” And he doesn’t need the shine to tell him she’s livid. He does as she asks. 

“Come sit with your mommy.” He does. The tub, he notes as he perches on the edge beside her, is full of ice. The cold radiates out and sends a chill up his spine even when he isn’t touching it.

Yet.

He knows there’s going to be a “yet,” because he  _ knows _ his mother and her ways. This isn’t for nothing. This is going to  _ mean _ something.

It  _ does, _ he realizes, heart sinking at the sight of a stack of women’s magazines piled neatly on her enormous legs, covers featuring mostly-nude men in compromising positions, and his cheeks are suddenly aflame. “Um,” he squeaks, but that’s as far as he gets.

“I am your mother, Eddie,” she says, all watery and imploring like she usually does when she’s trying to make him feel guilty. “I  _ raised _ you. I know you better than you know yourself. And I know what those boys -- those nasty older boys, the ones who were friends with Butch Bowers’ son -- I know what they all say about you. I hear it, from other people. Derry is a small town, Eddie-bear.” She fixes him with a  _ look, _ the kind that makes him shudder, over the top of her smudged glasses. “You don’t want to be the subject of gossip in a small town.”

“I’m… not,” he insists, but it curls up at the end like a question and his heart jackhammers against his ribs, gaze drawn to the magazine covers, to the men he knows he shouldn’t see that way. Thinks about the way he and Richie exist wrapped all around each other, the way they walk down the street like one entity, the way he used to look up at Bill with an emotion he couldn’t quite place before Richie burst into his life and took over everything -- before there was that  _ constant _ . The  _ always _ of hands prying at his arm or a cheek smushed up against his or legs entangled in a hammock that’s barely big enough for one of them. 

Thinks about (and scares himself, for a second, with the potency of it) the way it feels when Richie drapes himself over Eddie when they’re gathered at the quarry or the clubhouse. The way his chin rests on the top of Eddie’s head and his chest presses to his back and his stupid bony arms cross in front of him to hold him in place even though they both know Eddie isn’t going anywhere. How he wouldn’t give up that kind of contact with Richie for the world. 

The  _ security  _ of it. 

And how hadn’t he realized before?

Or, a small voice inside of him taunts, he  _ had, _ but he was too chicken-shit to examine it closely, and now it all comes tearing out in that agonizing way that his body had reacted when his mother told him not to touch boys the first time.

Is that why she said that? Did she know? She must have known  _ then, _ if she’s doing this _ now. _ If she’s accusing Eddie of making himself a subject of town gossip. If the Bowers gang calling him  _ girly-boy _ and  _ fairy _ and  _ faggot _ has been a torment he’s been subjected to for as long as he can remember.  _ They  _ must have known better than he did, when he brushed them off as just another set of insults flung around carelessly. Meaninglessly. 

And there’s the thing that makes him  _ really _ think he might vomit, overwrought with tumultuous feelings as he is -- if he  _ does _ think about other boys that way (and he’s certainly never stopped to think about  _ girls _ that way, if he’s being honest with himself), does that mean he’s wrong? The way his mom had told him, when she swore he’d get sick and die?

Does that make him sick  _ already? _

He doesn’t  _ want _ to be wrong, and he doesn’t  _ want _ to be sick, and his breathing speeds up until he’s wheezing and rattling once again. Not wholly because he’s afraid of being sick.

He’s afraid of losing Richie.

He doesn’t want it to be  _ wrong _ that he likes it when Richie tucks himself up against his side when they all go stargazing in the trainyard on mild summer nights. 

“You know you can’t think about boys that way. We talked about this.” Her sweaty hand rubs all up and down his arm and she’s still mad. She’s acting all  _ soft _ and  _ beseeching _ but it doesn’t do anything to cover up what Eddie can  _ feel _ from her. “You  _ can’t.” _

Eddie shakes his head, working to form words around the growing lump in his throat. “I  _ don’t!” (That feels like a lie but he doesn’t  _ ** _want_ ** _ it to be.) _

“I saw you. With your friends today.” Her hands are on his face now, slick with sweat and teeming with germs, he just  _ knows _ it, and when she cradles his cheeks it’s like she’s dousing him in acid -- burns all up and down his skin and all he can feel is dirty dirty  _ dirty _ and he just wants to throw up but he doesn’t want to deal with how she’ll react to that. Not with the hospital trips or the bedrest or the way she’ll fawn all over him like she actually  _ means _ it, but lock his bedroom door on the way out. He tries to shake his head; half in denial of the accusation he feels is coming (thinks again of Richie pressed against his side and how he’s grown so accustomed to that), half in an attempt to shake free of her bruising grip. “It’s okay, Eddie-bear,” she says, saccharine, holding him tighter until tears spring to his eyes. “It’s okay. We can fix this.”

** _‘Fix this?’ _ ** It slips through the cracks before he has a chance to silence himself.

_ ‘Fix what?’  _ Mike is quick to ask, and Eddie gasps and closes the door again because they can’t  _ see _ this, can’t see the way panic rises in his chest as he fights against every instinct telling him to  _ get the fuck out of here. _ They can’t hear the turmoil as he twists everything around in his head and tries to make sense of it all, of what his mother wants from him and the helpless attachment to Richie he’d barely even realized was there and what there is to  _ fix. _

It doesn’t feel wrong and he doesn’t want to  _ fix _ it.

There’s a clamour from the rest of the Losers asking what he was talking about, and he has to open the barrier between them just a crack -- calm himself down just enough -- to assure them he’s  _ fine, _ he’s just talking to his mom, he didn’t mean to share that. They all take it easily enough, but by then she’s pulling him to his feet and demanding he take off his clothes.

He eyes the tub of ice warily. “Eddie, do this for your mommy,” she pleads. “I can’t let my son be one of  _ those. _ Take your clothes off.”

He complies. Takes his time folding them, smoothing out creases before setting them on the bathroom counter, and when he turns around his mom is holding one of the magazines out to him to take. “Get in the tub.”

The shock of it, the second he has one foot in, sears through his whole body and comes out as a hiss through clenched teeth. It takes a gargantuan effort to keep himself closed off from the rest of the Losers while he tries not to hyperventilate as he lowers himself into the tub. Both things require significant brainpower and he  _ assuredly _ doesn’t have the capacity for that shit right now. 

By the time he’s kneeling, his chest is stuttering with his rapid, shallow breaths, and it  _ hurts _ it fucking  _ hurts _ but one look from his mother tells him he shouldn’t  _ dare _ try to stand up now, but  _ fuck-- _ his dick was never meant to be submerged in ice. His fucking  _ body _ was never meant to be submerged in ice.

Sure, it’s barely up to his waist, but isn’t that bad enough? Isn’t it bad enough that after a few seconds of agony like needles piercing his skin, his toes start to go numb?

“Mommy--” he starts, voice high and airy, the threat of tears evident.

“Open it.”

_ “Please--” _

“Open it,” she cuts him off a second time, and with trembling hands he flips to the first page of the magazine, barely able to make sense of what he’s looking at because his vision has gone blurry and he’s  _ shaking, _ shaking all the way to his core but he doesn’t tear his eyes away even after he’s blinked the picture of the nude model into focus. “Good boy.” Her pudgy fingers card through his hair. “What do you think?”

“O-of what?” Are his lungs seizing from the cold or is he flirting with the beginnings of an asthma attack?

“The man, Eddie,” she croons. “What does he make you think?”

He stares and stares and tries to think of something. Something about the muscles in his arms or the fake tan on his skin or the set of his jaw. He’s… objectively attractive, maybe. Eddie doesn’t fucking  _ know. _ He’s freezing his ass off and he’s in a tremendous amount of pain and he wants it to  _ stop. _ “He’s-- I don’t-- he’s old?”

And he is. Much older than Eddie, who’s barely pushing fifteen and is tiny and underweight and pale and freckly -- nothing like this rugged older man who’s just barely covering his genitals with the edge of a blanket, crows’ feet crinkling the corners of his eyes as he smiles coyly at the camera. This isn’t the kind of person he’d want a relationship with. 

Hell, he isn’t even fucking sure he  _ wants _ a real relationship, and  _ now _ is not the opportune time to be having that kind of crisis. He’s  _ fourteen fucking years old, _ for Christ’s sake. This shouldn’t matter.  _ This shouldn’t matter, _ but his mom peers down at him with steely eyes behind filthy glasses and a sob bubbles up out of him when she just reaches out to turn the page. 

Someone younger, surely. Maybe closer to their early twenties, he  _ doesn’t fucking know. _ “I don’t want to do this,” he whimpers, and instead of answering she just grabs the tin of salt and sprinkles some into the tub and he gasps, loudly, when the piercing cold gets  _ worse, _ somehow. 

His heart’s going to break right through his ribs if they keep this up. As it stands, he’s squirming frantically under the ice, trying to sate the frostbite-cold-burning but it’s an all-over pain that digs deeper into his skin no matter how much he moves. “I don’t know,” he insists, “He’s-- he’s just some guy! I don’t want to do this!” And then the tears he’s been fighting _ do _ leak out, all at once, on the tail-end of another sob.

“You’re not gay, Eddie,” his mother says, unnaturally calm compared to his hysterical state, as she caresses all over his shoulders and back, his arms, and adds more salt to the tub. He  _ wails, _ hands flying up to grip the edges, but her hand on his shoulder keeps him down, lower half still submerged in the freezing concoction. “Do these men make you have… dirty thoughts?” She asks the last part in a whisper, and he shakes his head, chest heaving, tears dripping off his chin. Prays she’ll relent and let him out of the tub. 

“Nuh-nuh- _ no,” _ he chokes out, still shaking his head, back and forth, until it feels like his brain is rattling around in his skull. 

“Oh, my poor baby boy.” Please please  _ please _ just let him out, he’s begging, only in his head, all alone confined to just his own thoughts. Her other hand clamps down on his arm where it’s tensed and ready to push him up, out of the ice that’s  _ surely _ taking his skin off in chunks -- feels like it’s carving him down to the bone. “I know they do. I _ know _ my baby. My Eddie-bear. I know there’s something wrong with you, but we’ll fix it, I promise.”

“Mommy, p-puh-please,  _ I don’t wanna do this.” _

“Okay. Okay, you can come out for now.”

And by the time she’s helped him out of the tub and he’s collapsing in a heap on the bath mat, he’s sobbing again, but with relief this time, and there’s a  _ warm, _ dry towel being draped over him and he chatters out a pitiful, “Thank you.”

She presses a kiss to his forehead. Holds him there for a moment that seems to stretch on forever, murmuring the same kind of mantra to him the whole time. “You’re not gay, Eddie. You’re just confused. We’ll fix you. We’ll fix you, don’t you worry.” She kisses him again. “Mommy knows how to fix you.”

He stays like that for a long while after she finally leaves, shivering and waiting for the sensation to return to his legs, and by the time he manages to half-crawl to his room and pull on a set of flannel pyjamas and the warmest socks he could find, Richie’s started his nightly routine of listening to obnoxious pop music and singing along while everyone else demands some peace and goddamn quiet. 

_ ‘Sing it with me, Eddie Spaghetti!’  _ he calls out, and it echoes through their shared bond with all the Losers even though it’s only directed at him.  _ ‘“And you may tell yourself, this is not my beautiful house!”’ _

_ ‘I’m going to sleep, Richie,’ _ he informs him, privately, and it’s as subdued as he can get it to be through all the  _ shit _ he’s feeling. 

The music cuts off abruptly.  _ ‘Eds? What’s wrong?’ _

_ ‘Nothing’s wrong. Go to bed.’ _ Something very much is. His feet still feel numb. His dick fucking  _ hurts, _ worse than getting kicked in the nuts, and he’s had plenty of that from Vic and his stupid cronies over the years (and Bowers before that; and one time, totally on accident, Richie, while they fought over the hammock). 

_ ‘Nice fucking try. I can literally feel you being all mopey and shit.’ _

_ _ Eddie frowns. Feels the way his body  _ really _ wants him to cry again, alone and still shivering, curled up under the blankets and frozen to his core. It’s fear, mostly, that shakes him apart in a few seconds flat and leaves him crying loudly with his face buried in his pillow.  _ ‘Nothing’s fucking wrong, asshole. Leave me alone,’ _ he snaps, but in the same moment he lets the,  _ maybe we should have had a sleepover, after all, _ slip through, and Richie latches onto  _ that _ with vigour. 

_ ‘Okay!’  _ He’s all chipper and bright about it and Eddie wishes, fucking  _ wishes _ he’d do that thing where he rests his chin against the top of his head and bundles him up in his arms and makes him feel  _ safe. _ But he’s alone, crying into his pillow and trying to work sensation back into his lower body, and Richie is just so warm even from several blocks away. 

He wants to snatch some of that warmth out of their bond and use it to help himself in the aftermath of his ice bath. 

_ ‘Maybe tomorrow.’ _ If his mother even lets him see his friends again. She’s likely to come up with a way to blame  _ them _ for Eddie’s  _ wrongness. _ He lets out an awful little choked noise at that -- there isn’t anything  _ wrong  _ with him. There  _ can’t _ be. He could chase this train of thought in circles until it all slips down the drain but forcing it all into clarity like this made one thing abundantly clear: there’s  _ nothing _ wrong with the way he thinks of Richie, no matter what she says. There’s nothing wrong with the way he used to think of Bill. There’s nothing wrong with him because Richie makes him feel safe and loved and, yeah -- maybe a little annoyed sometimes -- but how can there be anything wrong with that?

He doesn’t know how long he lies there, cheek turned against a pillow soaked with tears and snot, but he startles when there’s a gentle  _ tap-tap _ at the window and Richie’s voice in his head whispering,  _ ‘Can you let me in?’ _

* * *


	20. The track & field team

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW:  
-self-esteem issues  
-as always, Sonia Kaspbrak  
-emotional manipulation???  
-I hate her
> 
> So like how's the plague treating y'all? I'm at home doing nothing for the foreseeable future so expect more frequent updates I guess.

* * *

October 1991

* * *

It goes like this: Ben has been dieting and exercising to try to undo some of the damage that his mother’s overbearing concern about keeping him well-fed has done (she means well, he defends, and she’s always meant well, but he just isn’t comfortable with his body and she’s finally beginning to understand that). So, with her blessing, he’s been cutting back on unnecessary calories bit by bit and finding ways to burn fat in his free time. 

He, of course, has the full support of the Losers Club, too, and when he can manage it, Eddie will join him for a hike or a jog. 

They’ve been doing this all summer, and into the school year, and not only does Eddie feel a little more _free_ when it’s just the two of them out there like that, traversing the streets of Derry at the tail-end of a summer sunrise or after an afternoon spent hanging out in the clubhouse, but it’s been a good bonding experience with Ben. To spend time alone, just the two of them (he acknowledges, of course, that they’re never _truly_ alone, thanks to the Turtle) has been insightful, to say the least. Ben is full of surprises that even telepathy hasn’t unearthed yet. He’s also full of insecurities, which is no surprise, but Eddie hadn’t realized the extent of the problem until Ben had opened up during one of their first-ever morning jogs. When he’d stopped to catch his breath and sat on the curb and _cried_ because, “I don’t like the way I look. _No one_ likes the way I look. Everyone makes fun of me for it, and I’m so _sick_ of hiding under sweaters and coats and never being able to just _be,_ not without someone judging me.”

Eddie had hugged him, then, because it was the only thing he could think to do, and he’d offered, after a short silence, _ ‘I like the way you look just fine. We _ ** _all_ ** _ do. We’ll all like you no matter how you look, because it isn’t the outside of you that matters. You’re a good person, Ben.’ _

Ben had only cried harder at that. Eddie had pledged his undying support to anything Ben needed to do to feel better about himself, then and there. _ Within reason, _ he’d added, and that, at least, had set Ben laughing.

So, when Ben joins the track and field team in October of their second year of high school, dedicating himself to something that’s going to require him to stay in shape, it’s inevitable that Eddie follows along. Ben moves quite well for his size -- fast enough to secure himself a position on the team. Eddie’s tryout goes about the same, with jaws dropping all around and Coach Harris shaking his head as he makes notes on a clipboard. No one expected either of them (not the wheezy little baby-face asthmatic kid who’s supposedly sick all the time, who looks like a strong breeze will blow him away; and _ especially _ not the kid whose nickname since he moved here has been “Tits”) to actually make the team, but Harris had humoured them.

_ Well, look at us now, _ Eddie thinks as he folds up his uniform and sticks it in his backpack. Ben is still sifting through boxes with Coach Harris, trying to find a shirt that will fit him, and all around and inside of them is the murmur of excitement from the other Losers, the _ ‘Holy shit you actually did it?’ _ and _ ‘What the fuck, Haystack, I didn’t know you could run that fast,’ _ and _ ‘Fantastic throwing arm, Ben!’ -- _ because _ of course _ their friends watched their tryouts. No matter how many times they told them not to, because they’d fully expected to fail, and while there had been that little shadow of agreement that they hadn’t acknowledged, the Losers have been nothing but encouraging in the weeks leading up to tryouts. 

Eddie joins the track and field team.

His mom doesn’t know.

He doesn’t even have to _ say _ anything -- doesn’t even _ think _ a single thought about it -- because the moment he and Ben walk back outside, uniforms tucked safely into their bags, everyone else is already on the ball. “You can wash it at my house, if you need,” Richie offers, in the process of dragging them both into a hug full of pointy, noodly limbs, that everyone else is quick to jump in on. “I mean, I don’t live far, and my mom won’t tell your mom if she finds it in the wash.”

_ ‘Or mine, if Richie’s annoying you,’ _ Bill adds, and gets shoved out of the group hug for it.

“If she asks where you are during one of the meets or practices, we can always pretend you’re with me.” Sonia doesn’t have it out for Stan (or Bill) the way she does with most of his other friends, so it’s not a bad idea.

They can pull this off, probably.

  
  


In the course of trying to prevent his mom from discovering that he’s pulled what she’d probably consider the betrayal of the century (he _ distinctly _ recalls trying to reason with her during a screaming match with his grade school gym teacher about being “too fragile” to participate and how _ mad _ she’d been after, at him _ and _ at the school), he forgets that he’s done a lot of other things in the past few years that would probably make her head explode.

Perhaps “near-death experience courtesy of killer clown” and “sudden weird superpowers” (some of the Losers keep calling them superpowers and no one is inclined to disagree, even though they don’t use them for anything “super”) have changed who he is as a person, fundamentally. He still loves his mother, of course, and he understands that she loves _ him _ and almost everything she does is to try to keep him safe from the big, scary world out there. But somewhere along the line he realized that being afraid of everything, all the time, is no way to live.

Sometimes you have to do things that scare you. Sometimes you have to do things that would send your mother into a fit. 

_ (Sometimes you have to do things she specifically told you _ ** _not_ ** _ to do, just to feel a bit more in control.) _

Eddie’s been so busy this month, hiding track practices behind lies about going to the movies with Stan or playing at the park with Bill, that he forgets to be careful with the skateboard. 

And, in fact, this time he _ is _ going to the movies, for real (sort of -- mostly, Richie wants to dick around at the arcade for the afternoon, and they’re discussing a coin toss to go see one of the movies playing next door because none of them look particularly interesting). He takes his bike to Richie’s house, helmet and all, and leaves it there when Richie wheels his own bike out of the garage with Eddie’s skateboard tucked under one arm. 

“I found you another sticker,” he says as he flips it over so Eddie can see the underside. Among all the _ X-Men, Voltron, _ and assorted band stickers he’s acquired over the last few months is a garish _ Ren and Stimpy _ sticker. “Wanted to wait until you were here to show you.”

“Why? So I could tell you I hate it in person?” Eddie asks, taking the board anyway while Richie drags his bike into the garage to hide it from potential thieves (and the Bowers-slash-Criss gang, as they’ve been referring to them lately). 

“That’s precisely why, actually. I, like, specifically went out of my way to buy a _ Ren and Stimpy _ sticker, _ specifically _ because I know you hate that show, and now your skateboard matches the headboard of my bed!”

He rolls his eyes but he can’t help but laugh. “Thanks, Richie. It’s awful.”

“Aw, thanks, I feel so loved! So appreciated! So warm and tingly insi--”

Eddie hops on the skateboard and takes off down the street, towards the heart of town, while Richie scrambles to get on his bike and follow.

It isn’t actually until they’ve converged with most of the other Losers a few blocks down from the theatre (Mike caught up with them right around the time they were stopping at Bill’s house, and Stan is just around the corner on Main Street) that it happens. Stan’s coming into view and Richie’s hand goes up to wave and there’s a _ screech _ of tires on pavement and a flash of beige as… _ oh, fuck, _ is the collective thought, as Sonia Kaspbrak’s dingy Pacer skids to a halt right beside them and she comes tearing out of the driver’s side door faster than Eddie would have thought she was capable of moving. Her eyes are flashing and her voice is high and deranged as she demands, “Edward Kaspbrak, what in _ God’s name _ do you think you are doing on that thing?”

Eddie’s feet feel suddenly as if they’re made of lead, weight pinning him to the skateboard, and he’s not sure if that trickle of fear in his belly came from _ him _ or if it’s something they’re all just sharing right now. 

Oh, he is so fucked.

He is so, _ so _ fucked, and _ that _ thought definitely originates from him even if it _ does _ echo between all of them. 

One leaden foot hits the pavement, then the other, and he’s only a little bit aware of someone bending down to pick up the board before it rolls away, as his mother bears down on him, a halo of fury burning around her. _ “What _ did I say to you about skateboards, Eddie?! Have you _ lost your mind? _ Do you have any idea how _ dangerous _ that is?”

_ ‘Yes, I do, actually,’ _ he wants to say, but his tongue sticks in his mouth as her pudgy hand clamps down on his wrist. _ ‘That’s what all the protective gear is for,’ _ he would add, if he could speak; instead he’s silent as she rips him away from his friends and pushes him to stand behind her. 

“Which one of you put him up to this? Hm?!”

His voice comes back to him all at once when he sees the way they all try not to shrink under the weight of her anger. He can handle it better than them. He knows how to bear it. “None of them, mommy, I swear! It was my idea.”

Sonia’s grip on his arm tightens enough to _ hurt, _ though he dares not mention that, because he’s sure she’ll burst into hysterical tears right here on the street and make a fuss about _ never wanting to hurt you, never meaning to, sometimes I just love you so much-- _ and probably make an even bigger scene, which is the last thing he wants. “Nonsense! I _ know _ you would never do such a thing, Eddie-bear.” Her tone goes all soft and imploring now, as she turns just enough to look down at him. “It’s okay that they made you do it. I won’t be mad. I just want you to be honest with me. Who made you do it?”

Might as well bite the bullet with this one, since he’s probably about to be grounded for a year anyway. “None of them did. I wanted to try it, because you said I couldn’t and… and I wanted to prove that I _ can.” _

It’s the truth -- a good chunk of the truth -- and she must see this because her next words are _ not _ soft and imploring anymore. “Get in the car, _ now,” _ she seethes, and nudges him _ hard _ in the direction of the road, where she’s parked haphazard and half on the curb. 

He doesn’t have it in him to disobey, but he doesn’t close the door right away and he’s glad he doesn’t, because he gets to witness Richie Tozier pulling off what feels to him, in this moment, like the most badass thing he’s seen in nearly fifteen years of life.

“Give me that,” his mom demands, pointing at the skateboard in Richie’s hands -- the skateboard they’ve managed to keep secret for all these months, and the little collection of stickers and drawings it’s accumulated from all his friends. His heart sinks because he knows it won’t survive the next few minutes; knows his mother will find a way to break it just to drive her point home. 

Richie looks at her. Looks at the skateboard. Looks at her again. 

And then, without warning, hops on his bike and takes off at full speed down Center Street, while Sonia Kaspbrak watches, flabbergasted.

  
  


_ ‘She hates you even more, now,’ _ Eddie tells him while he’s lying on his bed staring at the ceiling after a very long and intense spat with his mother.

_ ‘Good,’ _ Richie says.

Bev is the next person to try to talk to him after his cool-down from arguing with his mom for almost an hour. She comes crashing into his headspace in a frantic way that feels _ so _ unlike her, calming down enough to say, _ ‘Eddie, I’m going to ask you a question and I need you to answer honestly. Are you hurt?’ _

_ ‘What?’ _ He sits up a little in bed, propping himself on his elbows even though she can’t _ see _ it to know he’s turned his full attention on her. _ ‘No. Bev, I never got hurt; my mom just _ ** _really_ ** _ doesn’t like the idea of me riding a skateboard in case I _ ** _do_ ** _ get hurt.’ _

Bev sighs, or, kind of sighs -- as much as you can inside your mind, and just presses on, _ ‘Never mind. Is everything else okay?’ _

_ ‘Well, I’m grounded. No surprise. Like, _ ** _super_ ** _ grounded. Like, worse than after we disappeared into the sewers for like a whole day, probably.’ _ Grounded enough that he’s only going to be allowed out of his room to use the washroom, at this rate, _ and _ she took away most of his sources of entertainment (not that those hadn’t been scarce to begin with). The Walkman is still hidden under his bed with a small comic book stash, but that’s about all he has to get him through the weekend.

_ ‘That’s all?’ _ Bev asks, and Eddie’s about to reply with a, _ ‘What else is there?’ _ but his door swings open and his mom, who has been doing her own post-argument cool-down somewhere downstairs, walks in.

“Eddie-bear,” she whimpers, tears in her eyes already, as she sweeps in to scoop him into a hug. “My little Eddie-bear. I love you so much.”

This is a complete one-eighty from the convulsive fury of a mother scorned he’d been facing off with not an hour ago, presenting his arguments about not wanting to live his life afraid of every little fucking thing (who is he kidding -- he’s always going to be afraid of every little fucking thing, and if fighting a demon clown in the sewers didn’t fix that, a fucking _ skateboard _ sure won’t) and trying to have a little bit of freedom, against _ her _ arguments about his fragility and her _ worrying _ and _ you know who doesn’t have _ ** _freedom,_ ** _ Eddie? Little slave children in third-world countries. You have _ ** _plenty_ ** _ of freedom in my house, young man, but you have to _ ** _earn_ ** _ it. _

Now, instead, she says, “Eddie, do you love me?”

And this catches him so off-guard, because he’s still _ so _ prepared to defend his rights to do things like ride a skateboard or use the tools in the garage (his dad’s old tools, left to rust and collect dust after his passing) or stay out after dark, that his brain takes a second to catch up to what’s happening and he makes the mistake of pausing before responding, “Of course I do. You’re my mom.”

Thus begin the waterworks. “Oh, Eddie,” she howls. “No you don’t! I _ knew _ you didn’t!” 

“I _ do, _ ” he reiterates, and how couldn’t he? Even if he _ didn’t, _ would it be a _ choice? _ They’re family. Blood. If he didn’t love her anyway, wouldn’t he love her out of obligation? She’s done nothing but love him and protect him (or, more accurately, tried her _ damnedest _ to protect him, even when he refuses to be coddled), she’s kept a roof over his head and carted him to and from doctor’s appointments and school events (the one’s he’s allowed to participate in) and the emergency room and, in the past, his friends’ houses. She’s fed him and bathed him and given all she could to keep him healthy, even when buying medication for his numerous ailments dropped them ever closer to the poverty line. Even if some of it is fake, or _ all _ of it is fake, she only does these things with his best interest in mind (and maybe there really _ is _ something wrong with him, something that many, many doctors and nurses simply could not see, not the way his mom can see). 

“If you loved me you wouldn’t do these things to me,” she bawls, fat tears seeping into the fabric of his shirt as she clings to him and tries (fails) to muffle her cries against his shoulder. And this conversation is becoming so familiar it would almost be _ irritating _ if he didn’t just feel so fucking _ guilty _ about it. 

What the fuck _ had _ he been thinking, buying a skateboard just to spite her? Nothing he _ ever _ does should be _ just _ to betray her wishes. And it’s not as if she was _ wrong -- _ he could very easily break a bone or worse just riding that thing down the street, and what then? His poor mom would have to drive him up to the hospital again, get his arm put in a cast again, spend weeks and weeks fussing and fretting over the damn thing and worrying herself into fits about his skin sensitivities and trapped dirt and gangrene and all manner of things, then having to help him shower without getting it wet, and keeping him out of the rain, and… and _ really, _ it isn’t fair to her for him to just _ do things _ because he wants to taste freedom for a little while. 

She’s given everything to keep him alive and well all on her own, and all he’s ever done is go against her wishes, time and time again. She deserves better, if only to make up for the sacrifices she’s made along the way -- even if some of them were the result of her own imagination running wild.

  
  


Which is how he ends up in a stand-off with Richie on the Toziers’ front lawn several days later, when his house arrest has ended and instead of driving him to and from school every day, his mother has permitted him to take his bike again, and _ only _ his bike. He meets Richie outside his house just as the Toziers are finishing up breakfast, and Richie has the skateboard in his hands, beaming at him like all is right in the world (it must seem so, to him). 

“Kept ‘er safe for ya, Mistah K,” he teases, eyes flashing behind his smudged glasses as he bows deeply to present it to him, and Eddie only stares for a few seconds -- long enough for the grin to falter. “What’s wrong?”

“Richie, I… I can’t take it back.”

“You aren’t taking it _ back, _ genius. It lives here, with me, and sometimes you take it out for walks. It’s called _ shared custody.” _ And, of course, Richie thinks he’s being funny, but this is really something Eddie’s been agonizing over for _ days. _

“I think you should keep it. Or maybe give it to Bill.” As with all things, Bill mastered the art of skateboarding without even really trying; it just comes down to natural talent with him. 

Richie sounds almost defensive when he says, “But it’s _ yours, _ Eds. It’s-- you _ bought _ it. You like riding it. And don’t try to tell me you don’t,” he interrupts when Eddie opens his mouth to protest, _ ‘I am _ ** _literally_ ** _ inside your head. Nothing gets past me.’ _

Eddie frowns and he thinks maybe his eyes burn a little, but he scrunches up his nose against the feeling and shakes his head. “Richie, no. I’m not allowed. Someone else has to take it.”

And here’s the thing: he decided, after much deliberation (and he had _ plenty _ of time for that, being locked up in his room for the past few days), that one thing had to give because he isn’t _ ready _ to give up the other. His mom knows about the skateboard and she’s mad about it and she’s _ right. _ He could get hurt. He’ll give her that.

But he _ isn’t _ prepared to quit the track team only a few weeks after joining. He _ knows _ she’ll disapprove just like she disapproved of him participating in gym class or sex ed. or any number of things that _ just aren’t right for her baby. _ Things that aren’t _ safe _ for him. 

Maybe because he’s come to value the “alone time” with Ben. Maybe because he loves the feeling of wind in his hair and the jolt of his feet hitting pavement. Maybe because everyone else on the team is easy to get along with and none of them ever try to tell him he _ can’t _ or he _ shouldn’t _ or--

_ Maybe _ he isn’t as willing to give up his freedom when his mother isn’t crying all over him and begging and lamenting her son’s inability to love her properly. A little voice that sounds an awful lot like her whispers in the back of his mind that _ that makes him a bad son, that makes him a bad person, _ but it’s drowned out every time it tries to sing louder, by a chorus of voices from his friends, who _ also _ love him, and who never tell him he _ can’t. _

Richie sighs big enough for it to rattle in Eddie’s ribs, too. “I’m not getting rid of your skateboard, Eds.” He’s already moving back into the garage as he says, “I’ll leave it here for you, when you decide you can have it again, and maybe I’ll take it out a couple times so it doesn’t just sit here and collect dust forever, but it’s still gonna be yours no matter what. Okay?”

He doesn’t bother arguing, because Richie can see into his head, which means Richie can see how much this decision is bothering him already, and he’s not being naive to expect him to change his mind somewhere down the line. “Okay,” he agrees. Then, “Will you wear the helmet if I give it to you?” Even though he already knows the answer.

Richie smiles and lets out this miserable excuse for a laugh and says, “You _ know _ I fucking will not. Nice try, Spaghetti Man. You can’t fool _ me _ into protecting this big, beautiful brain of mine.”

“Worth a shot.” Eddie shrugs, feeling a little less weighed down (only a little) even as he leaves the skateboard behind to collect dust, anyway.

* * *


	21. Bill's slip-up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that "vomiting" is becoming a common content warning, but between Richie being himself and Sonia regularly poisoning her own kid I think this is just the new Brand.
> 
> CW:  
-brief mention of vomiting (like VERY brief)  
-animal death  
-gore  
-grieving and death of a child (yeah there's talk of Georgie in this chapter sue me)  
-very slight internalized homophobia, but mostly just being in denial that any of [that shit] happened in the first place lol
> 
> Hm yeah so have fun I guess

* * *

December 1991

* * *

_ ‘Sucks you were sick on your birthday again. We still haven’t got the gum off the ceiling in the clubhouse.’ _

Eddie hasn’t been to the clubhouse since _ before _ his birthday -- hell, since before the incident with the skateboard. He’s hardly been to any of their houses and he’s missed out on most of their outings, because in trying to appease his mother he often finds himself giving in to her pouts and her tears and her pleading questions about whether or not he actually loves her. 

On the other hand, chewed gum gives him the heebie-jeebies, and he’s about to tell Bill this, but Richie opens his fat mouth and says, “I know right? It’s like you’re fucking cursed or something, dude. You better not be sick on _ my _ birthday.”

“I think I might be sick on _ purpose _ on your birthday.”

“Your loss.”

This is the first time he’s properly hung out with all of them since all of that shit, actually. 

And the only reason it’s happening is because his mom has a double shift at work today and he’s managed to convince everyone to sneak into his garage so they could cram themselves into the little raftered room above it, a popular spot for him and Richie to hide out and read comics, but never this many people at once. It’s a little cozy, but no one’s complaining.

At least if she comes home early he can distract her in the house while they all sneak out through the garage door. 

Richie’s suggestion of strip poker was shot down _ immediately _ by everyone (except Bev, but she isn’t here so her vote doesn’t count), though regular poker was deemed an acceptable alternative. Laid on the table (read: dusty floor) are as follows: half a bag of Skittles, strawberry Pop-Tarts, an opened pack of Bubblicious, two thermochromic pencils (much-coveted), seventeen cents in change, and a tiny turtle whittled from a piece of wood. 

This game, naturally, devolves into a screaming match between Richie and Stan (as most things do), which turns into Bill making a wise decision for once and ending the game before Stan can be accused of hiding cards in his, quote, “ridiculous poofy hair; seriously, what else are you storing in there?”

(“Really? You just ate shit at poker and you’re gonna come for my _ hair _ over it? _ ‘That’s just sad.’) _

Whoever the fuck thought _ Uno _ was the safer alternative is a dumbass.

It’s _ chaos _ in the tiny attic space as Bill screeches at Ben over “draw 4” cards and refuses to share his reclaimed pack of bubblegum with him because of it, despite letting everyone else have a piece. Eddie made the mistake of sitting beside Richie and Richie is not fucking playing to _ win, _ he’s just trying to screw with Eddie, obviously by playing all the worst possible cards at the earliest opportunity despite wildly inconveniencing _ himself _ every turn. 

The seldom-used room is filled with the clamour of six idiots turning a kids’ game into a veritable fucking _ riot, _ as stacks of dusty comics and magazines are knocked over while Bill lunges for Stan’s cards and Mike tries to play peacekeeper between Richie and Eddie.

It’s only after Eddie has to literally tackle Richie to stop him from “recreating” the incident that evidently got gum stuck to the clubhouse ceiling back in November (on his _ birthday, _ when he was _ supposed to be there _ but was laid-up in bed with a bucket on the floor nearby) that Mike puts an end to the chaos and demands everyone get their winter gear back on and go outside, _ please. _

After the warmth of a small space filled with shared body heat, the cold outside is a shock to his system. It bites at his cheeks and seeps into his gloves to bother his fingers, and there’s a phantom memory of _ cold, _more intense than this, drilling down into his bones, that he doesn’t like to think about; of

_ (I don’t wanna do this!) _

of ice and salt, and how come he never knew before, that pouring salt on ice makes it _ colder, _ even if only temporarily? 

But he has to keep that scribbled-out and tucked away, just like everything else from that day, because if he takes it out and examines it too closely he fears something inside him might snap under the pressure (might ruin the way he looks at-- ** _stop)._ **

Everything is _ normal. _

Nothing has changed.

_ Nothing has changed, _ and it feels easier to believe when Richie shoves a handful of snow down the back of his coat and sets him _ screaming, _ hopping around like a maniac and trying to shake the _ holy fucking cold _ snow out of his clothes, laughter stealing through the din while Richie laughs right alongside him, and Bill avenges Eddie by doing the same to Richie.

The snow is still falling in puffy white chunks, covering up their tracks every few minutes and probably causing traffic issues in the center of town, which is a problem for the grown-ups and a blessing for them. They can horse around in Eddie’s backyard all they want and they won’t have to worry about Mrs. Kaspbrak seeing the evidence because _ the evidence is erasing itself. _

They make snow angels and judge them (harshly -- _ ‘What the fuck even is that?’ _ Stan asks of Richie’s abomination, _ ‘A fucking kraken?’) _ and start a snowball fight even though Eddie insists someone is going to lose an eye if they do (“Not with these bad boys,” says Richie, tapping his glasses). At one point his neighbour throws her window open and shouts, “Could you kids scram!? Some of us work the night shift!” 

It’s quieter while Richie tackles him to the ground and tries to tickle him through several layers of winter gear, only because Eddie’s muffling his laughter behind his gloved hands so he doesn’t piss his neighbour off again. He kicks Richie off and rolls away, bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked, getting to his feet and tripping immediately into the half-constructed snowman Bill and Mike are working on in the back corner of the garden, tucked behind the massive begonia that will hide it from view if his mother happens to step out on the back porch at any point this winter (she won’t). The snowman dies a feeble death, toppling over slowly, crumbling to chunks and powder underneath him, while Richie’s laughter only grows excessively loud behind him.

_ “Georgie,” _ Bill admonishes from somewhere above him, “a-are you ser--?”

_ Everyone _freezes. The feeling of Bill’s breath catching in his throat tears through them all, the same way they can feel his heart stutter and his eyes burn and tension rush into his body all at once.

“I-I-_I’m…”_ _‘I’m so sorry.’_ Eddie rolls onto his back to see Bill staring down at him with wide blue eyes, the beginning of tears making them shine. _‘Eddie, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean--’_

“It’s okay,” Eddie says automatically, even though it really isn’t. Not because he’s _ bothered _ by Bill calling him Georgie -- no, he’s always known Bill’s affections for him to be something like brotherly love, something inherent and easy and unconditional -- but because Bill’s entire consciousness just _ sagged _ under the weight of years and years of grief built up inside and now there’s no way to undo it, especially not while Bill is looking at him like someone just came along and ripped his heart out. “It’s okay, Bill,” he lies again, “I know you--” But he doesn’t quite _ know _ how to finish that sentence, does he? 

Bill turns away from him to hide it when the tears overflow, but Mike’s _right there_ and he’s dragged into a hug before he can protest. He tries to apologize again when Eddie finds his way to his feet and joins the hug, but he’s cut off by everyone trying to _shush_ him at once, as Richie, Stan, and Ben surge forward to embrace them. Bill’s shoulders shake under the force of a sob and he tries to _explain,_ tries to tell them, _‘I just _**_miss_**_ him, I just miss him _**_all the time,’_** but they _know._ He doesn’t need to rationalize his behaviour to them, not least because they have constant access to his thoughts and are viscerally aware of everything he’s feeling. Of the _ache,_ and the void in a family bereft, the distance of parents borderline catatonic. The accidental projection of brotherly love onto someone he isn’t even blood-related to (as if that’s ever mattered), maybe long before Georgie was ever gone.

Bill isn’t done crying but he pulls away from Mike to grab Eddie’s face in his hands, mittens soaked with melted snow and leaving raw wet patches on Eddie’s cheeks but Eddie doesn’t care, just tilts his head back and stares up at Bill with the same adoration he’s always looked at him with, even while he’s covered in his own tears and snot and his lip wobbles while he tells him without _ telling _ him. Bill’s far from being the tallest in their club anymore (Mike, Richie, and Stan have him beat for _ sure) _ but he still towers over Eddie enough that the size of him is almost reassuring even while he’s falling apart right before his eyes. He opens up and lets him _ see, _ and Eddie learns what he’s perhaps always known, subconsciously: that to Big Bill, he’s _ always _ been a little brother. That Bill’s always viewed him in the same light as he viewed Georgie. That Bill likes to push his buttons and give him noogies and call him out on his shit as much as he likes to share quiet moments or play Cops and Robbers or jump into the quarry together. As much as he loved and hated to chase down monsters together and explore abandoned places together and beat the devil _ together. _

“I know,” Eddie says, and he knows what he means this time. Inside, there’s a flash of something like, _ ‘I’ll never be a replacement,’ _ and Bill is quick to counter with, _ ‘You never were.’ _

  
  


With school out for two weeks during the holiday season, they’ve practically got run of the town, provided they’re dressed for the weather (which, this year, is _ bitter _ at best) and Eddie’s tried hard to resist the peer pressure to just _ leave _ while his mom’s at work, but he’s _ so fucking bored _ sitting at home watching game shows all day while everyone goes sledding and builds snowmen and probably gets frostbite around him. It’s not fair. It makes him _ itch _ to get out there and run around, to dispel all the excess energy that’s building up inside him with each day he wastes lounging on the couch, picking at the absolute fucking _ garbage _ food his mom keeps in the pantry (seriously, soda crackers are going to do _ what _ exactly, for a teenage boy who’s supposed to be growing?) and listening to _ all his friends _ play.

When they make plans to go down to the clubhouse, he doesn’t have a choice but to join them, because the alternative is to just vibrate right out of his skin. They all meet up near his house with blankets and junk food, Bill carrying three massive thermoses of hot chocolate, and make the trek through the barren Barrens _ (ha) _ to the point where they _ know _ the clubhouse door is, despite the fact that it’s hidden under a thick layer of snow. 

Eddie and Richie dive for the hammock at the same time and both end up flipping over it and landing on their asses for their troubles. They fight loudly over it even though they’re just going to share it anyway, Eddie’s hand tugging Richie’s hair and Richie trying to sweep his legs out from under him, and _ (not allowed to _ ** _think about it)_ ** when they inevitably tip over into the hammock together once Richie manages to knock him down, he goes willingly, laughter bright in the dingy cold of the clubhouse. 

Everyone else piles onto the couch to watch _ Ghostbusters _and 

_ (Richie is warm against him and he wishes, a little bit, that he’d explained himself that night instead of just letting Richie hold him while he cried and shutting him out afterwards) _

Bill passes a cup of hot chocolate around for everyone to drink from, then pours a second and reaches over the back of the couch to give it to Eddie. It’s cold in the clubhouse, what with the lack of insulation and the many small gaps in the roof and around the door, enough so that even the hot chocolate that almost scalds his tongue doesn’t do much to heat him up. 

Richie either senses this or is just as cold, because he snatches one of the blankets from the Losers on the couch to drape over both of them, then steals the cup from Eddie to chug the rest of his drink, smacking his lips loudly while Eddie protests. “Sharing is caring, Eddie-bear,” he teases, and Eddie pinches his side in retaliation for the nickname. 

It would almost be easy to fall asleep like this, tucked under a knit blanket with his head by Richie’s shoulder, cheek propped up just enough on his own hand to see what’s happening on the screen. Every now and then he sits up enough to take a few sips of hot chocolate, until they’ve run out completely, and then he’s just satisfied and comfortable until there’s this _screeching_ in the back of his head, just as the movie is ending, that says _now; get home _**_now,_** that he can’t ignore no matter how hard he tries.

** _Go,_ ** it urges, and when he shakes his head to clear it -- certain he’s going insane -- Bill turns to look at him funny and Stan turns to look at him _ funnier. _

“I should leave,” he says without meaning to. Now everyone’s looking at him and he shrinks down into the terrible scratchy blanket and shrugs. “I just… shouldn’t be out. Y’know, without permission.”

_ ‘You’re a big boy, Eds. You shouldn’t need your mom’s permission to hang out with us,’ _ Richie complains, still warm against his back, but then the hammock shifts while he struggles out of it, anyway. “Let us go, then, Your Highness. It’s my honour to escort you home. Protect you from thieves and bandits and the like.” He winks and holds his arm out for Eddie to take while he stands and even though he doesn’t _ want _ to leave, he can’t stay upset about it with Richie being all over-the-top about walking him home. 

“I’ll come, too,” Stan says, _ still _ with that odd and distant expression on his face, and Richie’s grin gets _ louder, _ somehow.

“Yeah, and then Staniel will escort _ me _ home, like my knight in shining armour.”

“Sure, yeah, whatever. Let’s go.” Stan’s already climbing the ladder out of the clubhouse before he’s finished speaking, and Eddie’s being controlled by a sense of urgency so strong he doesn’t even pause to return Richie’s questioning gaze as he follows Stan right out of the door and everyone calls out their goodbyes behind them. 

Richie tries to fill the silence as they trek back through the woods together, a straight shot towards Kansas Street and civilization, practicing his Irish Cop Voice on them and telling a far-fetched tale they’ve heard several times before, about it saving him and Bill from a werewolf that Eddie still wouldn’t believe if he didn’t already know what _ It _ was capable of. 

Stan doesn’t even tell him to shut up. He leads the way with singular focus that harmonizes easily with Eddie’s _ compulsion, _ mouth set in a thin line. Stan has always been just enigmatic enough to keep them on their toes and just predictable enough to keep them comfortable. Now he’s a whisper of fog far off from the rest of them and Eddie can’t reach out enough to get a good grasp on what’s going on inside his head, except that he’s gotta keep moving, gotta take them the right way, gotta pay attention.

** _Pay attention._ **

“--an’ Big Bill, the mad lad, he tries to get reliable ol’ Silver goin’ but he’s got this gammy weight to drag along, see, ‘cause--”

Stan makes an abrupt right and says aloud, “Don’t go that way,” even though he doesn’t specify a _ way _ or a _ reason _ and just continues on, expecting Richie and Eddie to follow, which they do anyway but not without Richie breaking character to ask _ ‘Why? Eddie’s house is _ ** _that_ ** _ way.’ _

_ “Don’t _ go that way,” Stan says again, still marching at an even pace through the deepening snow. 

No one argues. They take the long way around to Eddie’s house, down an empty side street behind West Broadway and north up Witcham until they can loop back around and make the trek _ several _ blocks down Eddie’s street back towards the intersection where it meets Kansas, and it seems convoluted and wildly unnecessary but _ sensible _ at the same time, and Richie’s so quiet the whole time Eddie worries, over the increasingly-frantic voice commanding him to _ go home, go home _ ** _now,_ ** _ go home _ ** _please,_ ** that maybe they’ve lost him, and keeps glancing over his shoulder to assure himself of Richie’s continued presence. 

The voice that doesn’t come from any of them and doesn’t sound like anything he’s heard before follows him all the way up the front steps, cuts short his goodbye to his friends and interrupts his inquiry into Stan’s well-being (he looks fucking _ terrible, _ cheeks flushed and a sheen of sweat on his forehead that seems impossible in the frigid winter air), and just as he’s slamming the door behind him to the sound of Richie’s cyclical, nonsensical questioning about what the hell the two of them are playing at, the phone rings.

His breath catches in his throat.

It occurs to him that he doesn’t feel so hot either -- not nearly as bad as Stan looked, like he was about to keel over on Eddie’s front lawn or upchuck his lunch, but his limbs shake and his head throbs as he races to the phone and lifts it to his ear.

“Hello?” he says timidly, trying to sound as normal as possible despite the _ thud _ of his heartbeat in his ears. 

“Eddie, it’s mommy. I’m leaving work a little earlier than I was supposed to. Can you start dinner for me?” his mom says all in a rush. “If you put it in the oven now it’ll be ready by the time I get home.”

Eddie surprises himself with how even his voice is as he responds, “Okay, mommy... I love you, too... Bye, mommy,” and hangs up the phone. When he tries to take a step he stumbles and clips the table with his hip, knocking a stack of opened envelopes over and barely catching himself on the wall as he goes down. 

The sense of urgency has subsided, and in its wake it’s left a helpless void and a full-body weakness that seems to get worse by the second.

Something tells him he needs _ sugar _ so he throws open the pantry to find anything that will help, fishing an expired cereal bar out of the near-empty box at the back of a shelf. It’s stale as all fuck but he feels better after the first few bites, and of course, that’s when it finally occurs to him just what the fuck happened. 

Would his mother have been pissed if he missed that phone call? Would he have been _ in for it, _ the way she got on his case after she decided without any proper evidence that he was-- 

_ (No, that didn’t happen.) _

Would she have come home to find him missing and all but put him on trial when he finally came back from spending time with his friends?

Would he be -- _ Maturin forbid _ \-- put on stupid house arrest again, with her looming over his shoulder and controlling his diet and activities, all in the name of his well-being? He’s never been able to _ stand _ that. Hates it every time it happens even though he tries _ so hard _ not to, because he knows it’s only for the best, that it’s only because she _ cares _ and he doesn’t want her to have to worry.

If only she could _ understand _ that there’s no _ need _ to worry about him so much. He’s… he’s stronger than she’s convinced he is, he _ thinks, _ and he’s almost sure it’s better for his “well-being” when he can hang out with his friends and eat whatever he wants and play and _ run _ and be _ free. _

But it’s not her fault. She’s spent his whole life worrying about him and she can’t stop, and he knows this, and he _ understands _ this, and when she walks in the door not thirty minutes later, the guilt for disobeying her washes over him and he throws his arms around in her. Doesn’t say anything, because he doesn’t _ want _ to get in trouble, but he hopes the hug suffices as enough of an apology without the need for words. 

He doesn’t give much thought to the strange occurrences that afternoon until he’s coming back from the Costello Avenue Market after school the next day, a styrofoam cup of tea in one hand and half of a Kit-Kat in the other (Richie, the ass, took the other half for himself without even asking). The Losers who live on this side of town -- himself, Richie, Bill, and Mike -- parted ways with Stan and Ben back at the Market after they’d made their purchases and traded some class notes. They’re only a few blocks from the intersection of Kansas and West Broadway, and even fewer blocks from Eddie’s house, when Bill stops dead in his tracks and makes a retching noise.

_ ‘Oh, what the _ ** _fuck?’_ ** he demands inside their heads, and everyone follows his gaze to the dead raccoon on the roadside.

Eddie gags, too, and turns away to where Richie’s arms are already reaching for him, but he can’t shake the sight. A clean cut, from the base of its throat to its pelvis, entrails fanned out around it in a gruesome display. Blood matted in its fur and pooled around it in a dark, almost-black circle, staining the pristine white snow it’s laying in. Its tongue is hanging out of its mouth and its eyes are still wide and wild and Eddie’s probably going to have _ nightmares _ about this, now, for fuck’s sake.

He’s trying _ not _ to imagine dying like that, trying not to replay the entire ordeal in his head as if he was actually _ there, _ but when Richie whispers, “Oh, fuck, you don’t think Criss would have--?” he can’t _ not _ picture it. Because he’s _ right. _ It’s too clean and too _ manufactured _ (looks too much like _ hands reaching in and retrieving viscera and cruel laughter and the dying screams of--) _

Because he can see it all happen like he was actually there and he doesn’t mean to let what that’s making him feel escape and find the rest of them, but it _ does, _ and Richie doesn’t let go of him all the way but he does lean as far out of his space as he dares, to vomit into the snowbank they’ve stopped beside. 

And then, without really meaning to, he makes the connection, between the dead animal, gutted and left on display, and Stan’s adamant refusal to take this route yesterday, and it _ feels _ important but he can’t keep it in his grasp long enough to make sense of it.

They all exchange this _ look, _ this _ acknowledgement _ that they’ve seen this before -- they’ve _ known _this before. They’ve seen it in Patrick Hockstetter and Henry Bowers, this deranged joy in suffering, and they’re not safe from it even with one dead and the other locked up, because Derry feeds on fear and suffering no matter how far removed it is from the evil it grew on. 

It’s a harsh reminder of reality, after such a long time spent successfully avoiding Derry’s latest puppet-toys, and it sobers them as they all uneasily find their way home. Some things won’t ever change. 

* * *


	22. Sonia Kaspbrak's home remedies, part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Richie's b-day and they all love each sm and Sonia is such a _cunt_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yup so
> 
> CW:  
-_hella_ abuse  
-more DIY conversion therapy  
-HUGE emetophobia tw (this is gonna be _really_ hard to skip because it's kinda important, but the actual act starts at "...swallow down the inevitable but--" and ends at "His throat is worn raw...")  
-homophobia, slurs, very tentative internalized homophobia (Schrodinger's internalized homophobia I guess)  
-hoo boy this is fucked up you guys

* * *

March 1992

* * *

It’s right about the time of year they start pinning cards to their bike spokes in preparation for the warmer weather to come _ (‘I call jokers,’ _ Richie always says, and they always indulge him). Bill always gets Kings because that’s how it’s always been, and they’re all sure that if Bev was here she’d get Queens, even though no one says that. 

Mike and Ben split Lucky Sevens and aces.

Once Richie has also taken a six and a nine to add to his back tires, that leaves Stan and Eddie to battle it out for Jacks (Stan wins rock-paper-scissors only because Eddie lets him, ‘cause he’s never really cared which cards he got, and Stan’s choices are too easily predictable even without the mind-reading thing). 

“You can be sixty-nine with me,” Richie offers, freezes, and then laughs loudly, cheeks flaring red. “Never mind, actually. Your mom’s already got dibs.”

Eddie takes tens. They set the Queens aside with the rest of the deck for Bev to take when she gets back and then raid Mrs. Tozier’s laundry room for clothespins.

They’ll sound like a roaring engine when the cards flutter out of sync all the way through town every weekend. 

First to lose them all has to pay for an outing for the lot of them, is the rule. 

It’s also about the time of year you can never know if you’ll walk out the front door to find snow or rain or sunshine. Richie likes to say the lack of predictability is fun. The cold nights and warm days. The rain that turns to ice sometimes, and the snow that melts before it’s reached the ground. The first few flowers trying to find a foothold and the slush that usually drowns them. 

His choice of birthday party makes it not-very-fun.

“What if it’s cold? What if it rains? What if it rains and _ then _ gets cold? What if the tent freezes over and we’re trapped inside when we wake up? Or one of us gets frostbite? Or hypothermia? Do _ you _ know how to treat hypothermia?”

“Sure I do,” Richie boasts, winking as he tosses a handful of unfolded clothes into a duffel bag. “Step one is getting nakey.” He winks lasciviously and Eddie’s hands go up to his temples as he tries to take a calming breath.

“Oh my God, this is the _ worst _ idea.”

_ ‘Eds, it’s my birthday. Play nice.’ _

“I’m _ not _ getting naked when you’re hypothermic, Richie. Can’t we just have a sleepover _ here? _ In the basement? Where there’s running water and electricity and a _ furnace?” _

Only Richard fucking Tozier would dream up the idea of “camping” out in the practically-abandoned trainyards. Only _ he _ would think it’s a good idea to try it in _ March. _ Only _ he _ wouldn’t see all the potential problems with his choice of activity -- or, if Eddie truly understands his friend, it isn’t so much that he doesn’t _ see _ them as it is that he’s, well, _ ignoring _ them.

“Where’s the fun in that? The adventure? The _ drama? _ Besides.” Richie zips the bag closed without even double-checking the contents and _ holy fuck dude, _ Eddie’s a half-second from passing out, he’s pretty sure. “We’ll all stay plenty warm if we just cuddle up _ real _ close.” He winks again, leaning up close into Eddie’s space.

“You forgot your toothbrush, Trashmouth.”

“What do I need it for? Not like we’ll have a sink to brush our teeth in.”

Eddie _ stares _ as Richie hikes the bag over his shoulder and jives on out of the room. He might pass out for real, he fears. 

“This is how axe murders _ happen, _ Richie!”

As far as Sonia Kaspbrak is aware, her darling baby boy will be sleeping over at the Uris residence tonight. He doesn’t know how the fuck he swung _ that _ one. He was fully prepared to sneak out the window and then deal with the guilt eating away at him for the entire night, but instead he’s just going to have to deal with the guilt of _ lying to her face _ regarding his whereabouts.

Which is probably the lesser of two evils, but _ still. _ He feels like a bad son.

That only gets worse when he considers that probably the only reason he’s been allowed to do this in the first place is because he’s been _ so _ good the last few months, and so obedient and so quick to roll over and show his belly, that his mom has regained some trust in him. And here he is, breaking it already.

He knows he shouldn’t go -- everything inside of him _ screams _ not to go, but he’s become pretty good at ignoring it. This is how he _ always _ feels about disobeying his mom. It always gives him a sense of impending doom and makes voices in his head that don’t belong to him (voices that, as a matter of fact, often sound uncannily like Sonia Kaspbrak herself) tell him, _ ‘No, no, no, _ ** _no.’_ **

The birthday shenanigans become a pretty complex scheme. 

After parting ways with Richie, he returns to his own home a few blocks away, packs his bag like this is the most normal thing in the world, lets his mom throw a whole bunch of unnecessary medications in “just in case”, double- and triple-checks that the inhaler he never uses on principle is in his fanny pack, and lets her drive him to Stan’s. On the way, he warns the other Losers of their impending arrival so they can all hide in the backyard with their bikes and wait for Mrs. Kaspbrak to leave. 

She lingers, because of course she does, kissing his cheeks dramatically and insisting, over and over, to, “Please, please call me if you need anything.”

“Mom, I’m fine. I’ve slept over here before,” he insists, and it’s _ true _ but it’s also been a _ long time _ since they’ve had a sleepover at Stan’s -- maybe it hasn’t happened since before It and all the chaos of that year. 

Sonia kisses his forehead this time. Her lips are uncomfortably wet. “I know. I know. I trust Andrea. And that Stanley boy is very proper. It’s just that no one else knows how to take care of you like I do. I just _ worry.” _

“I know you do, mommy.” He puts an end to the smothering by turning and planting a kiss on _ her _ cheek. Now she just hugs him instead. “I’ll be fine. I’m always fine.”

“Okay.” She _ finally _ lets go and starts retreating to the car. “Okay, I’ll see you in the morning. Mommy loves you.” She stops before getting in the driver’s seat and for a terrifying moment Eddie thinks she’s going to change her mind and just take him straight back home, because that’s _ so like her. _ “Do you have your inhaler?” she asks, for the trillionth time in an hour, and he unzips the fanny pack and holds it up for her to see. 

She’s still calling out the open window about making sure he takes his medications as she drives away.

“No way you’re taking any of that shit,” a voice says beside him, and he just about jumps out of his goddamn skin.

_ “Jesus, _ Richie, don’t sneak up on me like that!” he cries, slamming a hand against his chest with little force while Richie laughs at his reaction. “You could’ve given me a heart attack!”

Richie slings an arm over his shoulders and drags him in closer so his cheek is squished against the soft black leather of the dumb jacket Eddie can’t even bring himself to hate. “Naw, yah too young fer dat!”

Eddie laughs despite himself and Richie’s arm squeezes tighter, but not enough to be uncomfortable. “What the hell kind of Voice is that?”

He can feel Richie shrug. “It’s in the works.”

The rest of the Losers come piling through the back gate with bags and bikes in tow -- Mike’s hooked a little wagon up to the back of his that they’ve loaded with gear: the tent, blankets and sleeping bags, two coolers of food and drinks, and necessary entertainment like games, cards, and books. 

With Bill’s confirmation that they’re all present and ready to go, they clamber onto bikes and start off down Canal Street towards the Barrens. Eddie doesn’t have his bike with him, because his mother insisted on driving him, for the sake of her “peace of mind”, so Richie rides him double all the way across town. 

He sings the entire time. 

_ (It’s terrible) _

_ (Eddie kind of likes it) _

No one asks him to stop because (first off) there’s no point, and (second) it’s not as if it isn’t _ entertaining _ when he tries to mimic Cyndi Lauper and comes across sounding more akin to a cat dragging its claws across piano strings and glass.

Setting up their tent -- right around where the trainyard meets the Barrens, so it isn’t so obvious that they’re there -- goes about as well as anyone could have hoped. Bill (a Boy Scout at heart and a master of all trades anyway) and Stan (an _ actual _ Boy Scout) are the only people with any clue as to what the fuck they’re doing, but they can’t do the work of four people on their own, so Bill’s stuck desperately trying to provide instructions to a very patient Ben and a bickering trio of a-holes while Mike lends his emotional support.

_ ‘How can you read each other’s minds but you can’t fucking lift in _ ** _unison?_ ** _ ’ _ Poor Bill is a split second from throwing in the towel as he regards the lopsided monstrosity they’ve created through this ordeal. 

Kicking Richie off the “Tent Togetherness Team,” as he’s already dubbed it, just makes him sulk, but it _ does _ get the job done when he isn’t setting Stan and Eddie off by pretending the tent poles are dicks and making crude jokes about penetration at every opportunity. 

His theatrical pout sets Eddie laughing once the stupid tent is finally _ up _ and looks semi-presentable. 

“Don’t laugh at me, dickwad. I’m brooding.” He pouts more and crosses his arms and Eddie can literally _ feel _ the smile trying to break through, so drapes himself over him in some kind of lazy embrace until Richie laughs, too. 

The sun is already beginning to set by the time they’ve figured out how to get the fly on the tent, and even though it’s a bit early in the year, Eddie makes all of the Losers stand in the field so he can spray them down generously with insect repellent while they grimace and complain about the smell. 

They play Explorers, the same way they used to when they were kids and full of imagination, while Richie narrates the whole thing like he’s David Attenborough in _ Wildlife on One. _ The perfect imitation of his cadence gets them all laughing as they venture as far into the Barrens as they dare, with night coming on fast, and they keep this up until it’s simply too dark for it and Richie suggests Army Tag instead.

The fact that no one has yet come rushing into the empty trainyard to chase off these noisy, trespassing teenagers baffles him, because _ surely _ half of Derry can hear them screaming and laughing, and see the beams of their flashlights bopping around as they chase each other through the darkness. No one comes. A rusted old freight train rumbles past on the elevated track that will take it to Haven, eventually, and they all stop to watch it escape this shithole town like they all secretly wish they could. 

Eddie’s watch beeps insistently at him and his hands instinctively go to the fanny pack secured around his waist. 

“No fucking way,” Richie says out loud, closer than he expected him to be. For the second time today Eddie jumps and rounds on him. Before he can cuss him out for trying to scare the piss out of him, Bill’s also at his side, and he’s got this ugly frown on his face that makes him look like the worry-lined old man he’ll probably grow up to be. 

“I’m not gonna take them,” he defends, even though he’s literally been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. It’s just so much _ easier _ when he does what his mom asks, because then he doesn’t have to deal with accusations about how he hates her and how he goes out of his way to make her life harder, and if that means he takes a handful of sugar pills a couple times a day, then so be it.

“Really?”

Eddie nods. It’s a half-truth. He doesn’t want to take them but he was probably going to anyway out of habit.

_ ‘Then what were you going to do?’ _ Bill and Richie ganging up on him like this is really bad for his nerves, but you know what?

You know what he _ wants _ to do? What he’s wanted to do for years? Since his first outburst over placebos that broke his mom’s heart and the exhilaration of just _ tossing _ the whole goddamn fanny pack away outside 29 Neibolt Street, when he was sure it didn’t matter because he was about to die fighting a monster anyway? 

What he’s wanted to do since he started flip-flopping between _ ‘What if some of them _ ** _are_ ** _ real; what if I’m _ ** _really_ ** _ sick?’ _ and _ ‘What if they’re all just fake and _ ** _everything_ ** _ is a lie she cooked up just to keep me out of harm’s way in the most convenient way possible?’ _

“I was gonna get rid of them.”

Eddie is reckless and brave when he’s with his friends. 

(This feels more like him than anything else, but he knows that can’t be true, because he almost cried when a demon clown tried to eat him, and he runs from Victor Criss like a sissy every time he so much as glimpses him or one of his pals, and he’s terrified every day of his life of doing something his mother would disapprove of, and _ brave _ is not something Eddie Kaspbrak was ever destined to be.)

But he’s reckless and he’s brave right _ now, _ even if it’s a fluke, so he pours the handful of pills from his clear plastic organizer into his hand and chucks them as far away as he can, watching them scatter as they sail through the air, to become lost in the mud and the swaying grasses that are just coming back to life as winter draws to a close. He throws them all away and then in a fit of brave stupidity he flips them off, and behind him his friends whoop and holler and Richie’s got him around the shoulders before he knows it, cheeks tinged pink from the encroaching cold while he shakes Eddie -- or maybe that’s just from the laughter that takes over his whole body and infects Eddie, too. 

His friends make him _ feel _ brave, maybe. Brave enough to face his worst nightmares and all the cruel fears his mother has spent his entire life drilling into his head. Brave enough to fight a real-life monster and make it out alive. Brave enough to toss pills he _ knows _ are just placebos away when he could never bring himself to do something so audacious around his mother, not after the first time, not after _ that _ fallout. 

Brave enough to go against her will on anything and _ everything _ if it means spending time with them, and as they all pile into the tent again to escape the damp chill that settles over the world with nightfall, the feeling strikes him hard in the center of his chest.

He _ loves _ them. Loves them in a way that shakes the Earth around him, maybe, and loves them like he’ll never be able to get enough of it, and if there’s ever one thing he _ wants _ to let escape his headspace, to blanket the other Losers in a heart-stuttering comfort and light, it’s _ this. _

Richie, in the middle of digging through the cooler for a Coke, turns to him with wide blue eyes as everyone else falls quiet around them. Bill puts a hand to his chest, like he’ll be able to _ feel _ what Eddie’s offering him if he just tries hard enough, and then this soft and kind of dopey grin lights up his face and he whispers from inside (like it’s a treasured secret), _ ‘Eddie, we love you, too.’ _

Ben, of course, tears up at this, because he’s almost as sensitive as Richie, so it’s hardly a surprise when he’s being crushed in an embrace from all sides and Stan, of all people, is murmuring a watery, “I love you guys,” from somewhere above his head. 

There’s an agreement from all of them, aloud and in their heads, and Bev’s voice as clear as anything saying, _ ‘You’re gonna make me cry. I love you all so much.’ _

And he’s _ sure, _ as sure as he’s ever been about anything in probably his whole life, that he would go to the ends of the universe for his friends. He’d die for them if they asked -- he knows they _ wouldn’t, _ but he’d do it anyway, if he had to. 

When they break apart, eventually, Richie’s wearing the biggest-ever smile and he bounces around the tent, disturbing the beds everyone is setting up, trying to rope them into what he’s calling “dramatic readings of the classics” until they’ve all just caved and assented because, of course, it’s his birthday, and they’ll do ‘_ anything you want, Your Highness.’ _

This gets Richie giggling and Stan actually accepts the high five for once, smirking quietly to himself, while Mike sifts through the small stack of books he’s brought along to find something suitable. _ “Hamlet _ or _ The Great Gatsby?” _ he asks as Richie leans over to pluck the books from his hands.

“Jesus, Mikey, you read this shit for _fun?”_ _‘Or do you just use it to stash porno mags?’_

Richie shoots him a conspiratorial wink but Mike, unabashed, chuckles and takes his books back before Richie can smear too much Cheeto dust on the pristine pages. “I think _ Hamlet _ is right up your alley.”

“What, regicide, treason, and just a touch of romance? Gee, you know me so well!” 

They can all tell he’s only half-joking (that _ is _ right up his alley, in terms of drama), but Mike still says, smiling sweetly all the while, “No, genius, because you like to do accents.”

Richie is practically _ vibrating, _ rocking back on his knees as he declares self-importantly, all the gusto he usually presents his Voices with ringing proud, “Aye, yer darn-tootin’, Mister Michael, _ sir. _ Yer right, I do, you bet yer fur!”

“Richie, you can’t just _ make up _ new accents at your convenience,” Stan says dryly, and Richie responds with a chipper, “Says who?” and maybe there’s a reason you’re not supposed to have sugar at night (or at all). Eddie considers swiping the pop and replacing it with water, but he’s got his doubts that anyone had the sense to bring water with them.

Toodles the English Butler unsurprisingly makes an appearance as they pass _ Hamlet _ around and take turns reading the passages in ever-evolving and increasingly ridiculous voices. No one bothers assigning characters: they just take things as they come until Eddie is collapsed on a pile of blankets, clutching his stomach, wheezing hard enough to trigger an asthma attack if he _ had _ asthma, while Ben recites _ “To be or not to be” _ in something vaguely resembling a Brooklyn accent, pitched much higher than his voice should naturally be. 

“Would you rather kiss Coach Harris or Ms. Moss?” Richie asks Bill later, between bouts of raucous laughter that have Eddie’s stomach _ aching, _ and rage-fuelled games of Go Fish (why can’t they ever play a card game like normal fucking people?) He grimaces just as much as any of them at the idea of kissing Ms. Moss, who’s probably genetically at least _ part _ raisin and is missing about half her browning teeth. Wentworth Tozier is not fond of her, not because she’s a crotchety bitch (Richie’s words) but because of her poor dental hygiene, which is characteristic coming from him. 

(Eddie’s devoted flossing habits have gotten him into Mr. Tozier’s good books, which Richie has teased him relentlessly for). 

Mike, the fucking enabler, asks, “Tongue or no tongue?” which just makes Bill’s horror increase tenfold and gets Richie _ howling. _

Eddie can see the dilemma Richie is picking at: Ms. Moss is likely related to Pennywise and smells like she died in 1950. Coach Harris is youthful and handsome and fit, and he’s probably one of the nicer adults in Derry, which is an anomaly in and of itself. But he’s also a _ man. _

“I think Ms. Moss would probably bite his tongue off, though,” Stan offers for their consideration.

“With her hobo teeth?” Richie asks.

“Yeah, with her hobo teeth,” Stan agrees, and they crack matching smiles that only teenage boys making fun of the crotchety old women who make their lives miserable truly understand and appreciate. 

_ ‘I’d like to keep my tongue,’ _ Bill sniffs, and that’s that on that.

Richie tries to continue with the inappropriate “Would You Rather?” questions by turning on Mike with, “Would you rather fuck Ben’s mom or Eddie’s mom?”

Mike, who’s been growing up bit by bit into a calm and unshakable man, mirrors his grin and says, “Neither. I don’t make a point of fucking people’s moms.”

“No, my good man, that is cheating. That is not at all how you play this game. Nuh-uh,” Richie crosses his arms and sticks up his chin and everything, and Mike only laughs and pulls him into a half-hug as an apology.

Things get quiet and comfortable slowly after that. The “Would You Rather?” questions melt into something tamer and heads find pillows and another train goes by outside the safety of their abode. The collective warmth from their bodies fills the space and while it’s still _ cold, _ because it isn’t even quite spring yet, it’s tolerable this way.

Some of them had the sense to bring actual pyjamas. 

Richie is firm in the belief that jeans and a band t-shirt is appropriate sleepwear.

Eddie’s going to fucking throttle him, one of these days.

They’re passing around a bag of barbecue chips while they just lie there, bundled up under layers of comforters and talking about any kind of nonsense that comes to their heads, when Eddie’s watch beeps again. Richie’s head shoots up from where he’s lying on his side facing him, glasses askew, an unfamiliar frown tugging at his lips. _ “Dude--” _

This alarm isn’t for any medicine. Eddie silences it and turns his wrist towards Richie. “It’s midnight,” he explains softly while Richie squints at the digital display and settles his glasses back on his nose. “Happy birthday.”

“You gonna sing to me?” Richie asks with the exact amount of cheek Eddie would expect. 

_ ‘No, because we aren’t five, but we’ll give you your presents.’ _ Ben is already rummaging around in his knapsack while they all shift around to dig wrapped gifts out of their bags. 

“Oh,” is all Richie says as he sits up properly, cross-legged in the middle of the tent. 

They just sort of pile gifts up around him and he makes a joke about being a spoiled king and how the peasants sure are feeling generous today, which gets him punched in the shoulder by Bill.

And the thing is, he thinks nervously as he watches Richie open his birthday presents, Eddie hates secondhand stores. He doesn’t know if that’s _ him _ or if that’s his mother’s influence, but he’s wholly convinced he’s going to die when he goes into stores full of used items because, well, _ duh. _ Who the fuck knows where any of that shit has been? Who the fuck knows when it was last washed? Those clothes could literally be carrying smallpox or some shit on them and he’ll be damned if he’s gonna subject himself to that.

Of course, his mom gets his clothes from the second hand store because it’s all she can afford, but she also washes them thoroughly after purchasing them (or, more accurately, pawns them off on_ him _ to wash), which eases some of his stress on the matter. 

But as a general rule, _ Eddie _ does _ not _ shop there.

Except, apparently, for Richie Tozier, who is somehow difficult to buy gifts for in spite of the fact that he never fucking shuts up. You’d think he’d drop some hints about his wants, needs, and interests, but it turns out that nothing of substance ever leaves his trash mouth. It’s all sex jokes and bad puns and half-decent imitations of accents. 

The other thing that defines him, Eddie realized, in his hasty after-school trip to the thrift store, is his clothing choices. 

More specifically, his hideous printed button-ups in colours and patterns designed to give people migraines. 

The slightly-less-migraine-inducing, slightly-less-hideous than the rest of his wardrobe, soft pink and pale yellow floral shirt Eddie bought him is as much to save his own sanity as it is to please Richie. When he peels off the wrinkled old Christmas paper Eddie wrapped it in (roll secreted out of the hall closet in his mother’s absence and returned there before she could notice it missing), his whole face lights up like it really _ is _ Christmas morning, and he belts out a laugh as he clutches it to his chest. 

“Thanks, Eds! How thoughtful!” he whoops, face still pinched with glee, and as he unfolds the shirt to get a proper look at it, the _ embarrassing _ part of his gift tumbles out from where it was tucked in the sleeve. It catches his eye immediately. Catches _ all _ their eyes, in fact, and Eddie regrets including it in that moment, heart jumping into his throat. “What’s this?” Richie asks, already reaching to retrieve it from where it landed in the messy nest of blankets.

He sets the shirt on his lap and turns the little turtle-puppet over in his hands a few times, taking in the shabby hand-stitching and the unevenly-sized button eyes, and then all at once his eyes light up _ fiercely _ and he slips his stupidly-big hand into the opening at the bottom, where Eddie had to _ guess _ how big to make the puppet so that Richie could actually use it (and eventually settled on ‘ _ at least twice the size of his own goddamn hand, he _ ** _supposed’)._ **

And mostly he’d meant it as a joke, at first. A gag gift that they could laugh over and that would just end up on a shelf collecting dust in Richie’s room, and while that’s still all he expects, he can’t ignore the amount of effort he put into perfecting the design so it actually looked like a _ turtle _ instead of a disappointing lump in various shades of green. The legs are a little wonky, anyway, but this was the best he could do, and he pretty much ran out of fabric so there weren’t any more chances at do-overs. 

To add some levity to the fact that he’s pretty sure his heart is about to come flying out of his mouth, he forces a laugh and says, “I know, it’s ugly.”

Without missing a beat, Richie says, “This is my new favourite thing.” 

Which, admittedly, makes Eddie feel a little better about the whole thing, whether Richie opts to take it as a joke (its original destiny) or not. 

“Did you make that yourself?” Ben asks, reaching out to take one of the legs between his fingers and rub the scratchy felt. “That’s really impressive, Eddie.” And wow, fuck, _ okay, _ Eddie’s cheeks turns red faster than he can will himself _ not _ to be embarrassed by the praise, so he shrinks down into his shoulders and hides his blush and the little proud smile that tries to accompany it.

“I mean, it’s still kinda terrible.”

“No, I’m serious, Eds,” Richie says, and for once in his life he sounds _ sincere _ and that’s not _ fair. _ “I love it.”

Eddie thinks he probably panics because the next words out of his mouth are not,_ “Thank you,” _ like they _ should _ be, but instead, “I hate it when you call me that!”

“Nah, you love it.” Richie _springs_ and bowls him over in a hug without warning, the turtle puppet still snug on his hand. “I can tell, ‘cause I can read your mind!”

Bev is saying something far-off in a place Eddie can’t reach and doesn’t bother _ trying _ to reach, not while he’s fending off a vicious tickle-attack from Richie, whose puppet-hand isn’t a detriment to his goal at all. He’s shrieking with laughter by the time he manages to knock Richie off-balance and roll them over, and before he can even retaliate Richie chirps, “I’m gonna call him Maturin!”

_ ‘No, Richie, that’s way too confusing,’ _ Bev intervenes immediately.

_ ‘No it isn’t! This is Maturin, and God is the bitch-ass cryptic-ass Turtle! Easy-peasy!’ _

“Ruh-_ Richie!” _ Bill scolds him out loud, but he’s overcome with a fit of laughter so intense that red splotches actually start breaking out across his face and Eddie has half a mind to offer his inhaler. _ ‘You can’t _ ** _say that!’_ **

“Fine. _ Professor _ Maturin. Final answer.”

“That’s... not much better,” Mike tries.

“It’s as good as we’re going to get,” Stan counters.

Once the hubbub from opening gifts has died down, and Richie’s stopped trying to draw on them with the invisible ink pen Bill gave him, they settle down to sleep knowing full well that won’t actually happen for a few hours yet. 

Richie complains that his feet are cold. Eddie tells him off for not having socks to sleep in (in fact, _ everyone _ tells him off for not having socks to sleep in). Eddie almost blows a fuse when he reaches into his bag to retrieve the socks he wore all day, and demands he put them back lest he get frostbite, and _ doesn’t he know _ his feet sweat during the day?

_ (‘Of course I know,’ _ he defends snootily, _ ‘You don’t get this kind of deadly foot odour without an excessive amount of nasty foot sweat to give it a boost.’) _ And yeah, Eddie definitely hates that, but not enough to stop him from fishing the spare pair of wool socks he packed from his duffel bag to throw at his dumb face. 

“Having wet feet increases your likelihood of getting sick. It’s bad for your immune system,” he says matter-of-factly, folding his arms over his chest while Richie pulls on the socks. “You could develop pneumonia. My mom told me.”

“I bet she did. Not like it would kill me, dude.”

“It _ could,” _ he shoots back, already battling concern about Richie’s feet being cold in the first place, even though that’s ridiculous because he’s a healthy teenage boy with a strong immune system; he could probably take on anything and beat it, from a common cold to Spanish influenza. Not like Eddie. “It would _ definitely _ kill me.”

He doesn’t know what’s so off-setting about the way Richie looks at him then, but it makes him avert his gaze and lie back down, bundling blankets over himself again to keep the chill out.

“No, it wouldn’t.”

“Sure it would. I’ve got--” But he _ doesn’t -- _ he _ doesn’t _ have asthma, he’s sure of this, Greta Keene _ told _ him this, but sometimes he feels like he needs the inhaler _ anyway. _ He doesn’t want to use it but sometimes, still, he really feels like he _ needs _ it, on days when his throat just closes up on him or his lungs get filled with invisible cement or the air just won’t come at all, maybe just won’t _ stay put _ long enough to count as a breath. Maybe it’s not asthma, but it has to be _ something, _ doesn’t it? No one else struggles to breathe on a regular basis for no good reason. “I’ve got bad lungs,” he finishes lamely. 

“You wouldn’t die,” Richie says again anyway as he lies down facing him, and Eddie’s expression is just morphing into that same scowl he always wears every time they argue when he continues, “I wouldn’t let you.”

He just rolls his eyes fondly instead. “Yes, because you can _ totally _ control that.”

“I can! I’ll sit with you on your hospital bed and read you the best bits from my mom’s Cosmos and tell you bad jokes with Professor Maturin until you’re too busy laughing to die. You’ll see.”

“I think that might just kill me faster.”

“Wow,” Richie breathes, scandalized. _ “Wow. _ Eddie Spaghetti, my _ former _ certified best friend, you might as well just take a stake and drive it right through my h--”

“I told you not to call me that,” he interrupts, hiding his grin behind the corner of the comforter he’s pulled up to cover his cold ears. 

“How’re you gonna stop me?” Richie asks, winking boldly, and Bill shushes them. The tent has been quiet around them for the past few minutes as everyone else nods off, one by one, and clearly their antics are keeping _ some _ people awake. 

_ ‘I’ll tape your mouth shut, Trashmouth,’ _ he threatens, and all that gets from Richie is an eyebrow waggle and an, _ ‘Ooh, kinky,’ _ that sets both of them shaking with laughter they struggle to keep silent. Somehow that’s always harder when you’re _ trying _ to be quiet. A little high-pitched giggle bursts out from where Eddie’s got his hands clamped over his mouth, even though he knows it’s _ wrong _ and inappropriate to laugh at _ that, _ that word that he barely has a grasp on this early in life, and his slip-up has Richie turning his face into his pillow and making noises not unlike something a dying whale would probably make, shoulders jumping with the effort of keeping it contained.

He wakes up to cold sunlight illuminating the world around him. His cheeks and nose sting from the winter air and he fights off fears about frostbite by reminding himself that he can _ feel _ the cold just fine and therefore can’t possibly have _ actual _ frostbite. 

Everywhere else is warm, though. He’s warm where Bill’s arm is slung over his waist, while behind him Bill snores loud enough to wake the dead (but apparently not any of the teenage boys conked out in this cold-ass tent). Warm where the Losers’ shared body heat is trapped inside the many layers of blankets they’ve curled up under. Warm where Richie’s forehead rests against his shoulder and his hair tickles his throat. 

That earthquake-magnitude _ love _ comes crashing back into him again, knocking the air from his lungs -- for once not in a _ bad _ way. 

  
  
  


Sonia picks him up at Stan’s house at eleven-thirty on the dot, as promised. This is a small miracle, because she’s usually early, and today was not the day for _ that. _ They barely managed to get everyone and all their gear hidden away in the backyard before her Pacer was rolling up to the curb out front. Stan escorts him through the rusted gate like this is the most casual thing in the world, and when his mom barrels into him to crush him in a hug he feels guilty and _ sick _ and almost _ prickly _ inside, but also a little exhilarated at having pulled this whole thing off. 

She escorts him to the car after asking Stan to _ please thank Andrea for her hospitality, _ hands never leaving his shoulders, and Eddie couldn’t care less about being _ handled _ right now because this morning he woke up cold and sore and not very well-rested, surrounded by some of his best friends in the whole entire world (sans Bev; it wasn’t _ quite _ complete, but it was damn close) and he’s still riding that high. It was _ good. _ There isn’t a whole lot of good in the world, he’s found, and he’ll take what he can get.

Next time, though, they’re sleeping _ indoors, _ because his ribs feel bruised from the unforgiving ground and the chill from the night air still lingers on his face, even if it’s only a phantom touch.

He’s already got lies lined up, even though telling them honestly makes him feel _ sicker, _ so when his mom asks on the otherwise-quiet car ride home, “Did you do anything interesting at the Uris’s?” he’s quick to respond with a smile and, “Yeah. He taught me how to play Solitaire. And we had fruit in our shredded wheat this morning.” These are two things that are sure to please her, with their blandness, and that are also on par with how Stan seems to live his actual fucking life. 

_ ‘It _ ** _is_ ** _ possible to be the most boring person on the planet and still be circumcised,’ _ Richie reminds him casually, as if there is _ any _ correlation there, and he barely stops himself from barking out a laugh right there in front of his mother.

“Oh, that’s nice,” is all she says, eyes still on the road ahead. She doesn’t ask anything else about his night and that’s preferable, honestly. He doesn’t enjoy having to lie to her.

When they get home she goes through her usual routine of checking him over after he’s been out of her sight too long -- no broken bones, no cuts or bruises, no rashes or insect bites. Any of those could warrant a trip to the emergency room, in her opinion. 

She only makes him strip down to his underwear this time, which is a blessing because it _ doesn’t _ make him feel viciously uncomfortable the way being naked in front of her does, and once she’s satisfied that Stanley didn’t throw him off the roof or whatever she’s imagining could have possibly happened, he dresses again. 

“I love you,” she tells him, leaning against the doorframe with her arms folded across her massive chest. “So much.”

And he knows she _ means _ it so he beams up at her as he finishes pulling his shirt over his head and says, “I love you, too.”

She beckons him over to press a kiss to his forehead, sweaty hands grasping his cheeks as if to hold him in place, and even when she isn’t kissing him anymore her hands linger. He makes a questioning noise, staring directly up at her because, well, there isn’t anywhere else to look when his head is being held in one spot like this. 

“Eddie?” she says, sweet, features soft even while the pressure on his cheeks borders on painful.

“Yes?” he manages in spite of his lips being squished until he’s sure he’s making some kind of weird fish-face at her.

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

“No, mommy,” he responds without hesitation, even though _ that’s _ a lie all on its own, and is he ever the fucking _ worst _ or what? 

Her lips press into a thin white line. A rush of cold air fans across his face as her nostrils flare.

Her nails start to dig into his cheeks before her grip relents abruptly. “I called Andrea Uris last night.”

Eddie can _ hear _ the panic shoot through him. It roars in his ears like putting his head right near the drain after pulling the plug in the bathtub, or maybe like standing too close to the tracks while a freight train carries its cargo past.

He doesn’t know what his body does in that moment, but he’s _ sure _ all the blood just drains out of him in one go and his organs start melting to goo, because _ no, _ because _ he’d been doing so well, _ because she finally started trusting him again and he went and did _ this _ and he was a fucking _ idiot _ to think he could get away with it. 

“Richie Tozier’s birthday is today, apparently. Did you know that?”

That’s a trick. _ Of course _ he knows that. She _ knows _he knows that. She knows why he was out of the house last night -- probably the whole truth about it, if she interrogated poor Mrs. Uris the way she loves to interrogate everyone else when it comes to her Eddie-bear. 

He nods. Her anger digs deeper into the lines of her face. 

“I know enough about that boy to know he is the _ last _ person you need to be around, Edward.” And, oh _ fuck, _ things are never good when she calls him by his whole name, and he fears he’s a half-second from either pissing his pants or fainting or _ both _ as he watches rage redden her face and her glasses start to fog up as she spits, “What did he do to you?”

_ Do to him? _

** _Nothing._ ** Richie would never do anything to hurt him, or whatever she’s trying to accuse him of. What did Richie _ do to him _ last night? Tackled him in a hug, or twelve. Made him laugh. Tickled him silly even while Eddie slapped his shoulders and told him to stop -- but there’s nothing wrong with that because he never actually _ means _ for him to stop. Tried to scare him while they played Explorers by pretending a climbing vine was a snake. Made him laugh more.

These are not the answers his mother is looking for, but he has nothing else to offer her, so he bites his lip and cowers under her gaze.

Her lips curls. Tears, of all things, spring to her dark eyes as she regards him with what he can only describe as disdain. Rather than get an earful about being disobedient and making her worry after him for no good reason, she turns on her heel and storms out of the washroom. Well, maybe not _ storms -- _ she’s reached a point where she’s genuinely too overweight to move with much haste, but hell if she doesn’t waddle down the stairs like she’s off to give Satan himself a licking. 

He doesn’t think to move until he hears her coming _ back _ \-- springs into action and starts scurrying out of the room, hoping to just hide in his bedroom for a while and have this argument _ later. _

_ “Stay!” _ she hisses at him as she huffs and puffs up the stairs, and like a trained dog his limbs snap to attention and he freezes in place. 

The instinct to flee kicks in again when he sees the stack of magazines tucked under her arm. “No!” he cries before he can stop himself, legs unlocking as he backs against the wall as if that’s going to help him any. There’s a ghost of the searing sensation of ice in prolonged contact with his skin and he thinks maybe he’ll die if she does that again, even though that’s a bit melodramatic. 

A tiny bit of the fury that was brewing around her melts away, as she approaches him where he’s cornered himself. “My Eddie-bear. It’s alright. Nothing will hurt you, okay? Just trust me.”

He shakes his head as her thumb strokes over his cheek and then thinks better of it, because this is his _ mother, _ who keeps him clothed and fed and keeps a roof over his head, and if he’s not going to do what she asks then he could lose those things, right? He doesn’t want to end up like the vagrants that freight-hop and dumpster-dive and sleep in the dirt under the porch of the Well House (just the thought of _ that _ makes his throat feel like it’s closing from whatever not-asthma ailment afflicts him at times like this). 

He wants to be _ good _ and he wants to be _ cared for; _ he just doesn’t want it to _ hurt _ this much. 

Tentatively, he nods, and her slimy lips smack a kiss to his cheek before she’s smiling at him, even while that dark cloud of fury sparks around her, barely dissipating. “Good. Good boy.”

Then she’s pressing a brown glass bottle into his hand and his body lights up right back into panic mode, because no no _no no no,_ **_wait,_** that’s _so much worse_ than an ice bath. His head jerks up so fast to look at her that his neck cracks. “Mommy--!”

_ “Eddie. _ I need you to be good for me, right now. Take your medicine.”

His throat goes tight with the threat of tears, or maybe with the threat of a “not-asthma” asthma attack. He doesn’t know. “I don’t--” he starts to choke out, but she interrupts him again.

“You _ lied _ to me, Eddie. You lied to your mommy. Do you know how _ awful _ that makes me feel?”

“I’m sorry.” The first tear drips off his eyelashes and runs down his cheek. 

“Are you?”

“I _ am. _ I’m _ so _ sorry. I’ll never do it again.” _ Won’t he, though? _ ** _Doesn’t_ ** _ he, every time he goes to a track practice or spends time with the friends she disapproves of or eats the food she always says he’s not allowed to have but that she eats in abundance? _

She’s stroking his hair now. Her filed nails catch his scalp and there’s little comfort in the gesture. “You are. I’m sure you are. I need you to prove it to me.”

He eyes the bottle of ipecac syrup clutched in his white-knuckled grip. This is the _ last _ thing he wants to do. But what choice does he have? She’s his mother. _ She’s _ in charge.

He pries the cap off and takes a hearty sip --_ hopefully _ enough to appease her but not enough to absolutely ravage his insides. 

This hope is quickly dashed when her fingers catch the bottom of the bottle and tilt it back up, forcing more of the foul-tasting liquid into his mouth. “The whole thing, Eddie,” she insists, and his eyes go wide, but as he tries to yank it away her hand clamps over his nose and all but slams his head back into the bathroom wall as she presses down _ hard. _ She grabs the bottle again with her other hand and tips it up more, and even as he’s trying to spit it out, and it’s running down his chin to join his tears on the collar of his shirt, he knows that in his desperation to _ breathe _ again, with her hand blocking his nose and his mouth full of the shitty godawful medicine, he ends up swallowing down a lot of it. Probably more than is safe. 

How can she expect him to drink the entire bottle? He’ll be vomiting out his internal organs if she doesn’t stop.

Except she _ really doesn’t, _ and by the time she’s done he’s toppling over onto the floor to spit out the last mouthful and gasp for air. 

He wants to be angry, to yell at her for forcing him to do that, but that’s not his place right now, is it? He’s in trouble because he lied, and she’s right, there needs to be a consequence. There needs to be a proper apology. He doesn’t _ like _ it but he’ll _ deal _ with it.

“Come on, Eddie-bear. Come.” She nudges him towards the toilet and he half-crawls there, vision already swimming (though he’s sure that can be attributed to a lack of oxygen). His head flops against the toilet seat and he can’t even find it in himself to be disgusted as he stares down into the bowl, tears streaming silently down his face.

This is going to be the _ worst. _ This is going to be the _ worst-ever. _ This is going to be the longest day of his life. 

The difference between ice and drugs that make you vomit is that at least you can decide to get out of the ice bath when things get to be too much, but you can’t decide when your body is done ridding itself of ipecac syrup. There’s no end to that until you just physically _ can’t _ anymore. 

He shakes.

There’s a little wooden stool tucked under the bathroom cabinet, that he made with his dad back before he passed. They built it together in the garage and Eddie put his little blue-painted, three-year-old handprints on the top, and Frank Kaspbrak wrote _ “Eddie, 1979” _ on it in black marker before passing it to Eddie to sign, so that’s about as illegible as one would expect from a kid who just barely turned three. 

Eddie doesn’t really remember much about making it. He wasn’t exactly “savouring” memories back then, or whatever you would call it, because he wasn’t expecting his dad to get ripped out of his life before he could form a proper memory of him. He _ does _ remember standing on that stool to reach the sink until he was almost ten, and the bittersweet excitement of realizing _ he didn’t need it anymore! _ and at the same time, ** _oh,_ ** _ he didn’t need it anymore… _

Sonia chooses to further shit on that already-foggy memory by dragging it out _ now _ and settling her fat ass on it, facing Eddie across the toilet as if this is just a normal way to spend a Saturday morning, as she starts riffling through her stupid porn-y magazines. 

Nausea starts low in his belly. Sonia opens a magazine to a picture of a man who, ironically enough, almost reminds him of Coach Harris; lean and tan, thick eyebrows and a sharp jaw accentuated by slight stubble. He’s young like Coach Harris, too. 

The bubble of nausea yawns wider in Eddie’s stomach until he can feel it crawl up his throat. Threatening. He looks away from the magazine, not sure why his mom thinks _ now _ is the time to be showing him these. He’ll accept his punishment as it is -- she doesn’t need to add _ “I still think you’re a filthy homo” _ to the deal. 

Her claws clamp around his jaw and drag his face back towards her. _ “Look,” _ she says, simultaneously imploring and impatient. He does. His chest burns. A shudder pulses through him and his mouth fills with saliva.

It’s going to hurt. It’s going to _ burn. _ There’s nothing he can do to stop it, now -- obviously. The drug has to flush itself from his system now and he just has to lay down and take it, has to sit here and stare at the Coach Harris doppelganger fondling himself, immortalized in a damn women’s magazine, and wonder if touching himself like _ that _ made the model sick the way his mom said it does or if that only applies to _ Eddie _ or if maybe that’s just another thing she felt the need to lie to him about for his own sake--

“How do you feel?”

He opens his mouth to answer her. That bubble of nausea rests right at the back of his throat and threatens to burst but he forces the word out as a string of drool drips off his lip and into the toilet. “Awful.”

He _ shakes. _

“Good,” she croons. Her fingers tease through his hair again in possibly the _ least _ comforting manner he can imagine right now. _ No it fucking isn’t _ ** _“good!”_ ** he wants to scream, but the acidic burn of ipecac syrup trying to expel the entire contents of his stomach in one go stops him. “Do these make you feel awful?” She turns the page of the magazine and guides his chin up again so he’s forced to stare at the images _ again. _

He attempts to shake his head. It isn’t _ that _ that’s making him feel like this and she _ knows _ it. But he _ can’t. _ Has to squeeze his eyes shut against the dizzying queasiness and try to swallow down the inevitable but--

His whole body lurches forward at once as he pukes _ violently. _ Sonia barely flinches. She forces his face up again even as there’s bile dripping from his chin and makes him look at the next picture. He barely has a chance to process it before all the muscles in his abdomen seize again and he vomits with such force that it _ hurts, _ genuinely honest-to-fucking-God _ hurts _ and he makes some noise that was probably intended to be a self-pitying wail but is interrupted by more vomit. 

He thinks he wants to _ die _ and all his mom does while his stomach rebels against him, over and over and _over_ until he's _positive_ there can't be anything left, is continue to shove the stupid magazines under his nose, barely acknowledging his suffering while she says things like, “Don’t you feel terrible? Don’t you see how this is making you feel? Don’t you see how this makes you _ sick?” _

_ You’re _ ** _sick,_ ** _ Eddie -- you’re sick on the inside, aren’t you? _

But he’s _ not _ and there’s _ nothing wrong with him _ and he has to cling to that while he’s assaulted with these stupid erotic photos of these stupid fucking _ men _ because his mom is _ convinced _ he’s got something fundamentally wrong with him but he _ doesn’t want to believe that. _

Doesn’t think he could survive it if he believed that.

He _ shakes _ and his cheeks are coated in a sticky layer of tears; he’s certain there’s nothing left to him, nothing at all except trembling limbs and a stomach bloated with acid, thinks maybe he’s drifting up and away from reality to look down and watch this unfold before him, hours or maybe minutes, seconds or maybe days into the ordeal. Thinks he can see his outside-self and his mom’s filthy hands rubbing over his pallid cheek while she makes him _ look, _ says to him, “What do you think happened to that fag from _ Queen, _ Eddie? He let this get the better of him and look where that got him. He got _ sick _ and wasted away, and _ my baby, _ oh, my darling boy, Mommy doesn’t want that for you. I don’t want you locked up in a hospital room where I can’t even visit you while your body just _ rots _ from the inside.”

He’s not sure if it’s that _ image _ or the syrup that makes him throw up again. His throat is worn raw and he feels it but he _ doesn’t, _ separated from his body as he is. He’d beg her to stop if he could. Maybe beg her to kill him. He’s bordering on _ delirious _ and maybe that’s for the best, or maybe not, as he feels his mother continue to manhandle him and try to focus his attention somewhere _ outside _ when he’s stuck drowning in what’s happening _ inside. _

“This is how God punishes the sinners, Edward.”

* * *


	23. Bev's turn with the POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally the only reason this chapter exists is because I wanted you all to hear from Bev because 1. she is the best and 2. that's it lmao
> 
> Comment to cast a spell that makes Sonia Kaspbrak rot in hell.

* * *

June 1992

* * *

Bev eyes Eddie and tries to ignore that barb-hooked pull at the back of her heart again -- for the millionth time since she met him. There’s too much of _ her _ in him, she supposes, and it makes her nerves go haywire sometimes.

The emotive resonance of his thoughts doesn’t help much in that department. 

As usual, he’s all twisted up and pulled _ taut, _ like a wire on the verge of snapping; sure to spring back and strike you in the eye on the rebound. He spends all his energy trying to bottle it up as if that were possible, but Bev can feel and see through all his barriers as if they were glass -- paper-thin, and cracked in all the right places. She wastes an awful lot of time worrying about this.

She wastes an awful lot of Mike’s and Ben’s time worrying about this, too, up at all hours of the night making them _ listen, _ making them _ understand _ without giving too much away. Sometimes there’s a _ flicker _ through the shine between all seven of them that sits the wrong way and one of them comes to her first, and she thinks her overbearing concern must be rubbing off on them, but would that be so bad? She hates to see any of her friends in a position anywhere close to the one she used to be stuck in.

The original Losers -- the ones who had been rough-and-tumbling in the mud and daring each other to lick frozen street poles since long before the fateful summer of 1989 -- are notably less attuned to these things. Bev’s sure they _ notice _ them, but it must be that they’ve known each other so long they’ve become almost immune to it. These are just the facts of life as the Losers know it: Stan’s self-deprecating spirals that always start after the exact kind of emotional surge that keeps Beverly on her toes (his _ dad, _ she knows without knowing, and hates the man despite barely having met him); Bill’s horrible, gaping loneliness in the wake of loss that threatens to swallow them all sometimes; the veritable tidal wave of crushing _ disappointment-rejection-fear-misery _ that crashes into them when someone reacts to Richie _ just _ the wrong way -- tells him to _ shut up _ a little too harshly. 

They all know, and they’ve all felt it, and it seems to go unacknowledged. These are just the facts of life. This is just how things should feel. 

Eddie’s an enigma to her not for lack of understanding, but rather exactly because of how well she understands. He tucks everything away into these neat little boxes and locks them all up and Bev can sometimes still see them even when no one else can, and she wonders whether he’s even aware of that. When he lets slip through a fear that rocks all the way through him, down to his toes, he’s quick to slam the doors and close up the shutters and Bev watches it all with a curious mind. 

Curiosity _ did _ kill the cat.

_ ‘Eddie’s not okay,’ _ she often finds herself screaming into the void, startling reactions from the only other Losers who haven’t had most of their lives to become accustomed to the intricacies of their friends’ minds. She may not be wrong to wonder if this ability always existed in all of them and the Turtle just fanned the flames -- seems to her as if the quartet of dumbasses (she’ll use that term loosely for Stan but the other three have definitely lived up to the title at some point or another) have been living in each other’s head-spaces to some degree for years longer than the rest of them.

Probably without even realizing it.

It wouldn’t surprise her.

But it _ would _ explain the obliviousness to each other’s plights on several occasions.

She’d think _ Richie, _ at the very least, would pick up on the things that make her call out to Mike and Ben for someone to just check on Eddie, just go make sure he’s okay, just assure her that wire hasn’t finally snapped or worse, that someone hasn’t cut it _ for _ him. 

Richie Tozier, in spite of all that overflowing, golden-bright _ love _ that pours out of his heart and right into his veins, is not aware of this the way Bev is. Not the way she’s made Mike and Ben aware.

Richie, for all his book smarts (all his As and the occasional Bs), lacks some common sense. Wouldn’t notice anything wrong with Eddie if it slapped him across the face. The same absence of sense that leads him to do things like lick frozen metal poles and mouth off to boys twice his size. 

Though he has exhibited restraint when absolutely necessary; she’ll give him that. He doesn’t give his father that kind of lip, as no child _ should. _ Perhaps the sheer stupidity he bumbles through life with would better be described as _ bravado, _ in that sense. 

Or maybe he really is just stupid enough to taunt Belch and expect to get away unscathed.

His blindness to Eddie’s situation, in particular, is exacerbated by the undeniable entanglement of their emotions. Out of all the Losers, Richie and Eddie are the only two whose bond with them relies purely on _ feeling. _ Eddie, especially, can barely get a thought across without spewing out every emotional undercurrent that accompanies it.

Their highs and lows are synchronized. None of the Losers could say for sure who feels _ what _ first and who’s just along for the ride. Inside the shine, they’re interconnected so intricately it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. 

It’d be almost sweet if it weren’t so overwhelming. 

And it feels almost like eavesdropping, almost like _ snooping _ \-- but they leave it on display like that without even meaning to. Without _ knowing, _ it would seem. The _ love. _ It’s a strong word for it, at this age. Sixteen and in love.

Is that so absurd? It must be; they’re still children, after all. 

It’s there nonetheless, woven into the bond between the two of them, only visible to everyone around them (Bill's been smacked upside the head for pretending to gag in their presence countless times by now). Pale yellows and soft pinks and warm, molten gold. It’s beautiful, she thinks, every time she focuses on it too long. 

Sixteen and in love.

They barely even know, don't they?

Eddie says it for the second time, sprawled on his stomach in the hammock with his feet kicked up in the air, cheek propped on his hand. He has a book splayed open in front of him but he’s barely given it any attention since Bev arrived, busy catching up. “You always dress so nice,” he says, and this time tacks on, “I only ever wear what my mom buys me, but I never really like it.”

This is what sparked the _ pull, _ the one that makes her heart stutter with love for this boy -- not romantic, not in the slightest. Not the way Richie looks at him and fills them all with firecracker _ pops _ right through the chest, a hitch in the lungs, soothed instantly by something milder, and difficult to put a true name to. 

No, Bev watches Eddie watch _ her, _ doe-eyed and, for once in his damn life, calm, swaying peacefully in a hammock occasionally jostled by Ben and Stan’s Third Annual Birdhouse-Building Extravaganza (the clubhouse is far from quiet; which is likely part of the reason he’s made no progress in his summer reading assignment), and she feels the explosive swell of affection for this boy who she’d almost consider a brother. A _ bestest friend, _ she would’ve said if they were all several years younger and a million lifetimes more naive. It’s the same word that she’d apply to all of the Losers, really, but for this one in particular there’s a fierce protectiveness that blooms right alongside it. 

She’d die to keep him safe. She would.

There’s too much of _ her _ in him. It’s hard to separate out the details. She wishes someone had been there to protect her; hopes the same for everyone else. It brings an uneasy smile to her face -- placating without giving much away -- when the mention of his mother pushes a shudder through her, makes her close off from the rest of their friends so they don’t overhear.

Who hurts Eddie? 

Someone. _ Someone must_. Her skin prickles again like that, gooseflesh and haunted memories. Maybe not always physically. He’s always afraid, not just of injury or death or disease, but something else that _ looms _ and makes chase when he tries to get away. 

The Bowers (Criss?) gang can take some of the blame, here. None of them have ever been safe from those bigger boys, with their short tempers and heavy fists. But Beverly Marsh is not stupid, not in the slightest -- it’s all too easy to recognize that clever brand of poisoning only a parent is capable of when you, yourself, have been slipped that poison time and time again.

What she _ does, _ though-- What she does is beyond Bev, because aside from the exceptionally rare outburst, Eddie has been as obedient as one can reasonably expect any teenage boy to be. He’ll never defy her the way boys like Reginald Huggins and Steve Sadler defy their parents; not skipping curfews and scoffing about it all the way through the lecture, or engaging in screaming matches resulting in broken furniture over something trivial like a messy room (Eddie’s room is never messy, anyway -- whether that’s a personal preference or his mother’s influence remains a mystery). No: Eddie Kaspbrak takes whatever his mother dishes out with a meek “Yes, mommy,” almost every time. He can be snippy at times (God _ knows _ he can be snippy at times, with his friends and his teachers and the stupid neighbourhood bullies who seem hell-bent on pulverizing him), but he tones it _ way _ the fuck down in his mother’s presence, becoming some unrecognizable shadow of the Eddie they all know and love.

She wonders what Sonia Kaspbrak must do to him. Nothing like what Alvin Marsh had done to his only daughter who he _ claimed _ to love -- that would be obvious, would be painted on his skin for the world to see. But not just _ nothing. _ Bev’s lost count of nights she’s been so overcome with a withering fear that swept through her chest and stole her breath away, left her gasping and cowering in a corner with little forewarning, and barely seemed to impact any other Loser. 

It has to be Sonia. She's suspected it’s Sonia since the day she met Eddie, and maybe been properly aware of it since the day he broke his arm falling through the rotted floor at the Well House. Sonia and Alvin have become interchangeable pieces in her head when she thinks of the horrors of Derry, though the two represent vastly different forms of evil. 

Not the way Stan’s father is always disappointed in him, always always _ always -- _ Stan can never be a good enough son or a good enough man or a good enough student or a good enough _ anything _ in his father’s eyes. Not the way Bill’s parents have both drawn into themselves in a haze of grief and all but left him to fend for himself.

Something more malicious. Something that claims to be love but is only wearing sheep’s skin, waiting to be revealed as what it truly is -- does she know? No, not yet. She’s still young. She’s still a child, no matter how badly this town wanted to change that. She doesn’t yet have the language for those things that disguise themselves as love until it’s no longer convenient.

If Eddie’s mother loves him, she’s got it all wrong, and the damage is going to be irreversible.

It’s going to take Eddie realizing this on his own for him to start trying to undo some of that damage. Bev knows this because she’s been in his shoes, in some way or another. She could tell him all the things wrong with his relationship with his mother, talk until she was blue in the face, and he’d only shake his head and say, “She’s my mom, Bev. She just loves me. She just doesn’t want me to get hurt, or sick, or stolen,” and that would be that. 

He’d convince himself of it more and more with each excuse, until it became solidified as a truth wherein his mother loves him and that means sometimes she hurts him (she must hurt him; Bev is almost certain of that) and that’s okay, as long as he is loved. This, most of all, intensifies the tugging in her heart, until it’s so forceful she feels it creeping up her throat. So she doesn’t tell him all the things that are wrong. She keeps her mouth shut and puts on a smile and turns away from all the _ wrong, _ because it won’t do her any good to dwell while Eddie remains oblivious as ever.

“I can fix that,” she tells him past that lump in her throat. She can, truly, provided he has a bit of cash to spare and can weather his aversion to second hand clothing stores for an hour or so. She _can,_ because she’s been nursing an affinity for fashion design for the better part of five years and has, secretly, used her friends as models in her work many, many times. A notebook for each of them, a section in each notebook dedicated to a season, pages full of sketches and scribbles and footnotes and rough estimates of measurements. Comparing and contrasting skin tones and fabric colours, hair and eyes, body type -- things perfected page by page until she couldn’t hold a pencil any longer. She _can_ fix it, if Eddie’s willing. “If you come with me, I think I can fix that for you.”

Morbid curiosity gets the better of him, even if he’s wary of the quiet in her head while she meticulously blocks out each individual Loser from seeing in there. No one needs to hear the anxious thoughts that flash through her head without preamble whenever she’s around Eddie and his wire-taut, terrified-of-everything breakdown-waiting-to-happen. 

She’s just escorting him out of the clubhouse as Mike is on his way in, and they stop for one of those famous Mike Hanlon hugs no one can get enough of and a quick chat, even though they don’t need to _ talk _ in order to talk to each other. Mike wants them to come by sometime next week because he and gramps were talking this morning about getting a new dog, maybe a puppy to train up if Mike thinks he can handle the job, and they’re going to go looking this week and see if they can’t get their hands on a Collie or even a good Old English Sheepdog, which Mr. Hanlon says would be ideal. 

“That’s great!” they both tell him, a mutual excitement at the prospect thrumming openly between the three of them as Mike finishes his story, breathless with delight. 

“Think of some names for me, would you? I’m drawing blanks, but maybe it’ll come to me once I find the right dog, y’know? Think of some in case.”

He disappears down the ladder into the clubhouse and Bev hauls Eddie off to the apartment Aunt Eleanor is rarely at -- understandably; she’s busy with her job as a journalist back in Portland, where the real news happens, but when she has a few days she’ll make the drive up and check up on Bev. Willing to go that extra mile for her (literally) in ways she’s sure her father never would have been. Willing to pay extra to only keep this apartment for two months out of the year (no one else seems to plan on living in it anytime soon, anyway, so it seems more like _ they’re _ doing the _ landlord _ a favour than the other way around, but she pays the extra regardless) if only because Bev had missed her friends with such _ desperation _ \-- it had sent her on a downward spiral so ferocious that even cocktails of mood-stabilizing medications hadn’t done her any good.

Her notebooks are tucked securely into a desk drawer with a lock, the key hanging around her neck. Also in this drawer, underneath a scarce pile of odds and ends holding some form of sentimental value to her, is a Derry postcard with a poem on the back that she reads every morning. 

“Here.” She hands him a spiral ring notebook, soft lavender, with his name scrawled in looping cursive over the front cover. The dot on the ‘i’ is a heart and he gets this soft smile on his face as he thinks how lovely that is, right in the open so she can hear it, and lets secretly slip that he feels _ appreciated _ even before he’s opened it to the first page.

Then the smile morphs into surprise and he says aloud, “Is this me?” Looks at her and back to the page, then to her again. “You drew _ me?” _

A quiet rumble of a laugh escapes her. “Don’t flatter yourself, shortstack. I drew all of you guys. Everyone has their own book.”

Eddie’s still torn between Bev and his little notebook, but he starts tentatively leafing through it.

“They get better as you go. I was still trying to figure out anatomy and stuff for the first little while. These first few are from when we were, like, thirteen and all baby-faced, and I could barely draw.” She flips through a few pages for him, until she finds one of the more recent outfit designs that looks more like a human person is wearing it than a stick figure, this one in full colour because she wanted to capture the juxtaposition of Eddie’s freckled face, tanned from a summer in the sun, with the warm autumn colours of the knitwear she’s drawn on him. 

He admires it for a long while, fingers tracing over the carefully-rendered waves of his hair and the shine on the buttons of the overalls the sketch is wearing. “Why did you draw me?” he asks, and Bev grins so wide her cheeks might split open.

“So I could design clothes for you, doofus,” she says, laced with affection and amusement. Eddie’s hand twitches back from the drawing and he holds it up higher as if trying to examine it in a different light.

“Oh,” he breathes. He flips back through the book, lingering on each page this time, then delves further. Bev watches as he cycles through each section, through all the cool-wet-weather spring outfits, the light and airy summer outfits, the two-page spread dedicated to various types of hats, the layers she’s included in the autumn and winter sections so he has the option to remove something if he’s too warm. “I like this one.” he points to the same one he’d paused on before. Turning back into “summer”, he goes over all the pictures again, meticulous, and after a long silence he says tentatively, “When you said you could ‘fix that’, you meant like…?”

_ ‘You wanna go clothes shopping with me?’ _ she asks, as a smile so wide it _ hurts _ stretches across her face. _ ‘I mean, you don’t have to actually try anything on, we can just keep the receipts and hope for the best, and you don’t even have to _ ** _touch_ ** _ anything if you don’t want.’ _

“Yeah,” Eddie breathes without any of the hesitation she expected. “Yeah, I do. Can we go now?”

“Hell yeah, we can!”

Armed with Bev’s notebook and a handful of cash from Eddie’s piggy bank (she cannot believe he has an _ actual _ piggy bank at the age of fifteen and he _ actually _ uses it), they bike down to _ Second Hand Rose, Second Hand Clothes. _

It goes _ swimmingly. _ Like, they couldn’t have had _ better _ luck in finding clothes that almost perfectly match Bev’s visions _ and -- _ when she holds them up a few centimetres in front of him and he holds his breath like the damn things are going to poison him -- seem like they’ll fit just the way she wants them to. “It’s alright if they’re too big,” she reminds him as she tosses a baby blue sweater into their cart. “We can make adjustments if need be.” _ ‘Besides,’ _ she adds slyly, alternating between two green-striped crewneck knits for size comparison, _ ‘We kind of _ ** _want_ ** _ some things to be too big.’ _

“Why?”

She has to turn back to the rack of knits to hide the grin, even though she’s certain he knows it’s there anyway. “‘Cause you’re tiny, and I want to highlight that.”

Eddie huffs out a bitchy sigh, folding his arms over his chest while she turns back to him with a new green shirt that she immediately hates. It’s too much of an army-green for him. “I resent that.”

“It’s just a fact. Richie’s right, you know. You _ are _ cute.” She goes back to the first two sweaters she was looking at, seriously debating just getting _ both, _ even though they’re kind of on a budget, here. 

“You and I both know he only says that to screw with me. He doesn’t actually _ mean _ it.”

Bev wants to say, _ “You’d be surprised,” _ but she doesn’t think either of them are ready to have that conversation right now (or maybe _ ever), _ so she shrugs and drags him down the next aisle. Here she starts grabbing any lightweight plaid button-ups that might work, even while Eddie interrupts with, “Uh, Bev, plaid isn’t really my thing. Like, only Bill ever wears that.”

She snorts. “Unlike Bill, I’m not expecting you to walk around with it hanging open all summer to make girls swoon in your wake.” Satisfied with her haul, she sets about wrapping the sleeves of one around Eddie’s waist to test how it looks with the outfit he’s already wearing -- blue track shorts and a white _ Tracker Brothers _ t-shirt. Not bad, but he’s going to have to make some serious changes to _ that _ get-up if he wants her approval, here. “It’s to tie around your waist, like this.”

“Then what’s the point in it?” He doesn’t mean it in a rude way or anything. He’s genuinely curious. It’s irresistibly cute. Bev smirks and presses a kiss to his cheek, setting him blushing cherry-red.

“The _ point _ is to look cute. It’s an accessory.”

“You wear shirts like that sometimes,” Eddie muses, then tilts his head and does that thing where he scrunches up his nose that makes her want to kiss him again. “You also wear overalls sometimes. And knits like… Bev, are you just trying to dress me like _ you?” _

“Ah, you’ve uncovered my scheme! I wanted us to be like twins _ so bad _ that I tried to trick you into dressing like me.” Eddie laughs while she tries out a few more plaid shirts and settles on two favourites. “Alas, now that you’ve caught me and foiled my plans, I guess you’ll just have to keep wearing baggy graphic tees and shorts so short I can see your ass.”

_ “What?!” _

Now _ Bev _ laughs, so loud several other patrons in the secondhand store turn to glare at her, and claps him jovially on the shoulder a few times while she composes herself. “I’m _ kidding. _ The shorts are cute. The socks, on the other hand…” Part of her, the part that is doing this a little bit for Richie’s sake, _ knows _ that he thinks Eddie prancing around in tube socks is probably the cutest fucking thing on this planet. The other part thinks it’s a fashion disaster and wants to put an end to it ASAP. 

She’s gotta find some kind of compromise.

“There’s nothing wrong with my socks,” Eddie says haughtily, because of course he does, and he’s still going to let her do whatever she wants anyway. 

In the end, they haven’t even spent the whole fifty dollars he brought for their shopping trip, so he takes her to _ Rosa’s _ for an ice cream sundae and doughnuts as thanks. Out of courtesy, she insists he needn’t trouble himself, but the whole thing just dissolves into them joking about first dates and who’s better dressed for the occasion _ (obviously _ it’s Eddie, with that _ incredible _ combo of blue shorts and red-striped socks), and they people-watch from their booth by the window and dip doughnuts in their ice cream. 

  
  


“Bev.”

“Hm?”

“Beverly… Beverly Marsh.” Richie’s voice is strained and Bev’s already smirking when she turns to face him.

“Yes, Richie, dear?”

Richie clasps one of her hands between both of his. “Bev, have I told you that you are doing God’s work here?”

He doesn’t _ have _ to tell her. She can see that for herself, just by the way Richie got all _ delightfully _ flustered when her and Eddie popped back into the clubhouse after their ice cream “date” to see if Ben and Stan’s birdhouse construction extravaganza needed any additional assistance. Of course, they stopped at his house and ran his new clothes through the wash cycle twice, then watched sitcoms and vandalized last week’s newspaper while they waited for it all to dry, and he let Bev choose his outfit, before coming _ here _ and making Richie’s life simultaneously worse and better. 

Playing coy, she glances over to where Eddie’s putting roofs on birdhouses, dressed in the almost-too-big overall shorts he insisted on wearing his fanny pack with, which just makes them look even _ bigger _ now that they’re cinched at the waist like that, and by extension makes him look _ tinier -- _ being able to share Richie’s mindspace makes her _ quite _ aware of how close he is to passing out even while she shrugs and says, “Who said I had anything to do with it?”

“Oh, _ try me. _ You’ve been with him all day.”

She pats his shoulder while he stares across the clubhouse at everyone else (well, just Eddie, if she’s being real) goofing off and failing spectacularly at making new birdhouses and bird feeders to hang up outside, and says, “Don’t worry, Rich. You’re next.”

“Oh, Miss Marsh, what could there _ possibly _ be to improve here?” he asks playfully, still not looking away from the rest of the Losers (Eddie) as he gestures at himself in general. 

She catches his wrist halfway through the motion and starts listing off on the fingers of his trapped hand: “Bracelets. Nail polish. No more Hawaiian shirts--”

“You can pry those from my cold, dead hands--”

“The leather jacket needs to go.”

“Hard no.”

They compromise.

Eventually.

* * *


	24. Eddie Kaspbrak runs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not really any particular content warnings for this one. im gonna go shoot arrows at boxes for a few hours now i guess. not much else to do lmao.

* * *

July 1992

* * *

If one wanted to find Eddie Kaspbrak on a quiet Saturday morning, it would take but a leisurely stroll from where his house sat near the intersection of Kansas Street and Astoria Avenue. Southwest down Kansas Street until it ran through Route 2; right onto Route 2 and the old church and church school would be a mere two-hundred metres or so further down the road. 

This is, incidentally, where Neibolt Street begins, and is also (unfortunately) within sight of the Well House, a hop and a skip from several of the Losers Club’s favourite hangout spots -- the Barrens, the trainyard, the clubhouse, the bank of the Kenduskeag, and (if one were willing to count it in spite of the trek through the Barrens) the quarry. 

He never goes inside, of course. Not least because his mother has never been particularly taken with religious organizations despite having been baptized Methodist herself. He also can’t help but suspect a little white boy like him would stick out like a sore thumb in there. Might not even be allowed in, in an ironic turn of events. But in the summer months, and often enough in the winter (it must, after all, become quite warm with so many bodies moving and breathing inside) the windows are propped open to let the air circulate, and in exchange the sound of vivacious song escapes the confines of the church and floods out into the world around it, anyway, so he needn’t be inside to listen.

There isn’t much need for solitude in his life -- in fact, he prefers not to be alone, most days. The Bowers (now Criss) gang have always been an influencing factor in his unwillingness to take on the world (the town of Derry, at the very least) on his own, empty-handed and with a face that just seems to scream:  _ Hit me! Hit me! Pin me to the ground and beat the shit out of me for no good reason! Break my bones -- it ain’t hard! I’ve got fragile little bird bones; great for snapping! It’s not as if I can fight back! _

This, however, he will give himself, if only because it’s always been a safe routine, uninterrupted by things like local bullies or overbearing mothers (though there had been that one incident with the leper and the clown, but they’d dealt with that already, years in the past now). He walks through his late Saturday-morning routine of solitude, although he’s never truly alone anymore -- courtesy of the babbling of six other people always filling up his head. Swings by the Costello Avenue Market to grab a popsicle (cherry red, today), makes his way down Kansas Street towards Route 2. Stops at the edge of the property around the church and finds himself a shady tree to sit under (the usual towering birch, rounded leaves twisting in the warm breeze). 

He’s right on time. The last few stragglers are filing through the wide-open double doors and the discordant notes of a piano warming up hit the summer air just as he tips his head back against the silver bark to watch the leaves dance. Parents with children in tow, elderly couples, a gaggle of women laughing vivaciously, pushing and prodding at each other the way the Losers sometimes do when they’re all too caught up in the excitement of being together. 

His friends think he’s with his mom most days like today. His mom thinks he’s with his friends. Mostly Bill and Stan, the two she tolerates, but he’s not naive enough to think she doesn’t suspect he spends time with all those other “degenerates” they’ve roped into their little club. These are the brief moments of respite he allows himself every week wherein he’s not trapped between her claws or trying to keep up with the other Losers -- he loves them, dearly, and doesn’t know what he’d do without them, but it doesn’t hurt to have an hour or two to himself that doesn’t involve Richie burping in his face or Stan throwing jabs out to each of them in turn or Mike… well, actually, no. Mike’s perfect in every conceivable way. Mike would be allowed to sit here with Eddie in peace and solitude if he wanted. Mike used to spend his days at the church school, too, even before Eddie knew him, except Mike would be  _ inside, _ singing praises to Jesus with all the rest of them. He thinks maybe it would be weird if Mike knew Eddie spends the occasional weekend eavesdropping on the choir practice at his church. But the  _ rest _ of the Losers probably don’t know what the fuck the word “quiet” even means (yes, that includes Ben -- time spent in a library doesn’t stop anyone from being chatty at the wrong times -- and Stan, who doesn’t talk much until he  _ does). _

Not that he’s known peace at all since the incident in the sewers and the subsequent “gift” of the shine being bestowed upon them, anyway. But it doesn’t hurt to try. 

It’s just days like today, when everyone is busy with their own things, that he thinks to himself,  _ a little peace and quiet is a good thing, _ and he braves the many dangers of Derry to sneak off here and have his little pleasures.

He doesn’t realize he’s closed his eyes until the sound of gospel music has been gone so long that the birds have taken over again. He opens them to find the sun high in the sky, bearing down on him between the branches of the enormous silver birch. There’s still sticky red residue coating his fingers from the popsicle and he licks it off as he watches choristers depart in waves, piling into cars and shouting their goodbyes, and thinks (not for the first time), what a thing it is: to come to Derry, of all places, to come to  _ this street, _ of all places, from all the many and varied unincorporated townships slapped across the map around them, just for a few hours a week to practice singing about God and His glory -- to come back on Sunday morning and sing these songs to rows upon rows of people who  _ believe _ in it, who haven’t seen things that cast doubt on the existence of  _ any _ God, of  _ any _ benevolent force in this universe. After all, what’s a Turtle to do against a shapeshifter from Hell? 

How would the rest of the world react if they knew? It’s a heavy burden to carry, knowing monsters beyond their wildest imaginations exist, knowing  _ things _ are out there in the stars that  _ made _ them, or maybe didn’t, that  _ control _ them, or maybe don’t. 

Would people still spend Sunday mornings worshipping a God they can’t even prove exists? (Would any God be cruel enough to let something like  _ It _ exist in the first place?)

There must be a draw to this place that overrides even the maliciousness; even the curse of the beast that lurks  _ (lurked) _ under Derry. Something that keeps them all so focused with the singular intent of coming together in worship that they don’t sense the corruption of Derry the way Ben and Bev have described it to them. 

Then again, he always ends up here on Saturdays, too, so maybe he does understand the draw. 

But it’s the same thing that compels him to dust off the seat of his pants after the last car has rolled away, west down Route 2 and into the farmland beyond, and finish the trek down Neibolt Street. Past the accursed Well House, through the gap in the chain-link fence leading to the trainyard. Sometime after lunch the rest of the Losers will congregate somewhere, all coming to an agreement in their own silent way of communicating -- plan to meet up behind Rosa’s or at Bassey Park or the clubhouse (most likely) or the site of the dam they built back in ‘89 that they’ve been trying to replicate since spring, but haven’t had the free time or the right materials. Maybe the trainyard, if he can sway them. 

He knows that the sun is approaching its peak and if he’s planning to eat lunch, too, he’ll have to head home soon, but he can’t resist the call of the trainyard and its wide-open fields and tufty, knee-high grasses that he’s all-but-certain don’t trigger any allergic reactions -- certain his mom lied to him about that, though she surely has her reasons. He especially can’t resist the little tickle of adrenaline through his nerves as he surveys the fields and bends to tie his laces tighter. Takes a deep breath of the fresh air warming in the early summer and sets his focus on a point in the distance, towards where the fourth elevated railway-- from where he’s standing -- crumbles into a pile of rubble where it was allowed to fall into disrepair after never being completed.

And he runs. As fast as his legs will let him move; his meticulously-combed hair falling out of place as the wind whips past, his heart slamming against his ribs as it pumps faster, faster,  _ faster, _ in time with his feet pounding over the packed dirt. He passes under one railway, engulfed in shadows for a brief moment, and bursts out the other side with an enormous smile lighting his face. Blades of overgrown grass snap against his shins and knees, not hard enough to leave marks, but enough to leave just a slight sting of exhilaration. 

He breathes in. Breathes out. Forgets he was ever supposed to have asthma, or that  _ thing _ that was never asthma in the first place. He breathes just fine out here, like this.

No one here to tell him he can’t run. No one here to tell him he’s fragile. No one to stop him from damn near flying, fast as he can move, until his lungs burn and his heart feels ready to burst. Shooting through the wildflowers and weeds like a bullet, like a blur, like even a cheetah couldn’t overtake him anymore.

He sprints under the second railway, the third. Skids to a stop just before the fourth, where concrete and steel beams create an impassable barrier for a good stretch, making a chore out of reaching the Barrens beyond. Here, he has to put his hands on his knees and pant for air for a moment before he tips his head back to the sky and laughs, elated and breathless. Tiny puffs of white cloud pass by in front of his eyes, screwed shut with mirth. Nothing compares to the Saturday mornings he finds himself alone but not lonely. Not even first place in the track meets he goes to without his mother’s permission and then  _ wishes _ with all his might he could tell her about so she could hold him gently and say,  _ “What a good job you did. What a good son. I’m so proud of you.” _

He’s gearing up to turn and run all the way back, still soaring on the high, when a silhouette appears in his peripheral vision, just far enough that he can’t make out any distinguishing features. For a moment he thinks it must be one of the Losers -- but, no, none of them are here. He can sense them all as background noise; if he focuses hard enough, he knows what they’re doing because none of them are blocked out the way he is. Most of them are at home. Richie is just riding his bike home from the arcade, having spent the morning doing what he does best (or second best, after some of the Voices, but Eddie wouldn’t tell him that for a million dollars anyway) and parted ways with Stan up the road so Stan could get home on time for lunch, too. Bill is helping his dad build something in the backyard, running tools and supplies back and forth on command and occasionally being roped into nailing something in place. Mike is shearing sheep, humming along to  _ The Platters _ as he does so.

A second figure appears next to the first, larger in bulk and in height, and then a third, bigger than both the other two put together (or maybe that’s his imagination running away from him, as he registers who it is and dread sets in). They’re talking loud enough that the wind carries the sounds of their conversation over to Eddie where he’s stuck, frozen, by the debris-pile -- not quite intelligible but loud and boisterous and derisive, as Vic and his pals tend to be. They’re so busy elbowing each other and cackling and shoving one another over into thistle patches that he’s sure they haven’t noticed him.

He seizes the opportunity to sneak away. Not across the open expanse of terrain behind him, back towards Neibolt Street. They’d spot him in a heartbeat. 

No -- he darts along the edge of the rubble from the collapsed railway, in the opposite direction that his bullies are approaching from, following along to a point he’s sure he can scale with a little bit of faith in himself. He doesn’t hesitate to dig his fingers and toes into the nearest holds and hoist himself up, for once not caring about the jagged edges of the shattered concrete or the rusted metal poking out every which way. If it’s a choice between lockjaw and Victor Criss, he’ll take lockjaw any day.

Criss has fallen into the grips of insanity faster than Bowers did, taking things further than Bowers, or even Hockstetter, would have tried, he’s sure, before the summer of 1989. Once the first to tell Henry when he was taking things too far, now Vic has become an expert at bending his friends to his twisted will. Derry must be deeply diseased to unravel someone like him so quickly -- the person Eddie would almost _ hope _ to see whenever the Bowers gang was nearby, because it made the pummelling a little easier. A little shorter. A little less intense.

Now he draws it out like it’s all a great big treat to him. There’s a reason the Losers often say they shouldn’t be caught alone in the streets of Derry.

But this isn’t the streets. This is the trainyard, where no one ever bothers to go, because it’s nearly bordering the town limits and it’s dilapidated and mostly-barren, anyway. Vic has no business being here. Moose and Belch have no business being here. 

Not on a beautiful Saturday morning while Eddie just tries to take a moment for himself, away from the tribulations of his life. 

His foot slips and he can almost make out snippets of their conversation now -- something about a “dumbass fucking dog” getting what it deserved. A shudder crawls up his spine. He hauls himself over the top of the debris, careful to keep low and out of sight, and starts sliding down the opposite side. His heart is pounding again but this time there’s no joy or freedom in it.

He wishes to God -- _ to Maturin? _ \-- that Mr. Braddock was around to catch them here and chase them off the property, but trains don’t come around much anymore so the train master's appearances have become few and far between. He’s probably at home trying to find postings for a new, better job at this point. Always talking about the railways going out of business when he sees him (Eddie isn’t the kind of kid who gets in trouble for being here anymore -- he’s the one Mr. Braddock will invite into the ancient, weathered station for a cup of tea and some stale cookies and answer his questions about the state of things). Vic and his pals, though;  _ those _ are the kids who’d get a licking for trespassing, and Eddie almost wishes it on them now. 

“Fuck,” he hisses when he feels something scrape a thick line up the back of his thigh, catching and probably tearing the hem of his shorts as he drops a few inches farther than he meant, the chunk of concrete he was trying to step on dissolving under his foot. 

He pauses, there, with the  _ something _ now digging into his lower back, holding his breath so he can listen for any sign that he’s alerted them to his presence. They’re very close now. The universe must have it out for him. Moose’s rumbling laughter rolls over the rubble, low and dangerous, while Vic carries on with some story about the “chicks” down at the high school. 

He lets himself drop the rest of the way to the ground, takes a deep, shaking breath, and  _ books it the fuck out of there, _ straight for the treeline. He’s just a few steps from cover when there’s a shout behind him; he doesn’t have to hear what’s being said to know he’s been spotted. 

It’s alright, though -- he’s got a good head start and he knows these woods like the back of his hand at this point. Knows which branches to duck under and which rocks hide steep drops in the forest floor on their far sides. Knows the route to the clubhouse better than he might know the way to his own house back up Kansas Street. The clubhouse will have to work to shelter him for now, if he can maintain the distance between himself and the Bowers gang. No one else knows about it. They’ll just think he escaped, or maybe disappeared into thin air.

The sound of them crashing through the undergrowth behind him is faint enough that the fear starts to melt away as the familiar landmarks leading up to their clearing start to appear: that dead, hollowed-out tree trunk that looks as if a wailing face has melted into it; the many birdhouses and bird feeders Stan and Ben worked so hard to build (with some unsuccessful assistance from everyone else) and coerced the rest of them into climbing trees to hang high, high up in the branches, where no one would notice them without  _ really _ looking.

That large, hooked root from one of the ancient oaks, lifting high off the ground before dipping back down, that Richie trips over at least twice a month despite the fact that they’re all quite aware of its presence.

He can see the clearing now. The tangle of dandelions and clover, a spray of brilliant yellows and purples twined around each other, just blocking the door from view. A noise he can’t quite place escapes him -- breathless relief, maybe; a gasp and a sigh all in one.

And then the ground is rising up to meet him and there’s a sharp, hot sensation that blossoms across his forehead. “Shit!”

He rolls onto his knees and cups a hand over the spot by his temple that he just smashed against a fucking log, heart still going going  _ going, _ cursing himself for not fucking paying attention to where the fuck he was putting his feet (to be fair, it was a clump of wet leaves that he slipped on, and he could hardly have predicted  _ that). _ There’s blood coating his fingers when he draws his hand away, but it’s something else that sends a chill through him in that moment.

Vic Criss’s scratchy voice, crooning from not-so-far behind him, easily audible over the rustling of leaves and branches as the three of them plow through the trees. “I’ll fuckin’ get you, girly-boy. Don’t think you can outrun me, little wheezy faggot.”

The clubhouse door is  _ right there. _ Vic is also  _ right there, _ and it sounds like Belch and Moose aren’t too far behind. He spends just long enough weighing his options that the flash of blond hair darting towards him through the foliage makes up his mind for him -- he can’t compromise the location of one of their only safe spaces. More of a home to some of the Losers than the houses they live in are. He can’t do that to them, not even to escape the ass-kicking of the century. He watches Vic’s rapid approach through the trees as he hauls himself to his feet, overcome for a moment by dizziness, and changes his course towards the banks of the Kenduskeag, where -- as a last resort -- several sewer outfalls line the stream and might provide some kind of hiding place.

Eddie Kaspbrak runs. 

* * *


	25. The Bowers (Criss) gang incident

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh guys gals and nonbinary pals, we are really in for it, aren't we?
> 
> CW:  
-graphic descriptions of injuries  
-minor medical procedures or whatever you call it. its late idfk.  
-big sad  
-richie being a little feral but only bc he loves his friends and would do anything to keep them safe  
-sonia is her own warning, she's a bitch
> 
> is this even coherent??? i havent slept in seven years lmao

* * *

Richie needs to get back home by noon if he’s planning to eat anything today, because he wasted all his pocket change beating his own high score on Street Fighter, and his mom is only home until one o’clock, so he’s got a small window within which to bother a good, hot meal out of her. He’s pedalling furiously up Witcham, just coming up on Bill’s house, when he hears it.

Feels it?

The _ flash. _ Kind of like a scream, but if the scream came from inside someone’s head. And then there’s these flickers; little bright bursts of something half-formed and tremulous leaking through the shine. As if it’s unintentional, but would be a cry for help if the person thinking it could complete the thought. 

But he’s not wholly paying attention to _ that _ part, because at the first flash/scream/cry for help, he jumped so hard that his bike swerved heavily to the left, catching on the curb and tossing him gracelessly over the handlebars. He lands in a heap on Bill’s front lawn, all grass stains and scraped arms, now. 

There are a few seconds, for everyone who shares the shine with him, that are spent processing what they’ve just heard, and then, like a collective breath, or maybe more like a hivemind, one thing rings out between all six of them: ** _‘Eddie.’_ **

Maybe they said it out loud, too. Who knows. Who cares?

Richie sure doesn’t. He’s too busy leaping to his feet, scrambling back onto his bike. Faintly, he’s aware of Bill’s garage door flying open somewhere behind him and Bill racing out on reliable old Silver, eyes wide and frantic, much the same way Richie’s must be, as they take off side-by-side down the street. 

Two things come through clear in all the chaos from Eddie’s end, besides the plea for help (and the initial scream of fear, or maybe pain; _ God, _ they all hope it wasn’t pain): the Kenduskeag, the rocks lining the shore, near where they tried reconstructing that dam a few months back. And the Bowers gang -- or, what’s left of it.

They all kind of converge at that point, time speeding up and slowing down and warping all around them through Eddie’s visceral panic until it feels like two seconds and twelve years from the moment he shocked them all into action, probably without entirely meaning to. They all arrive exactly where Eddie needs them, all within moments of each other, and throw themselves into the fray.

Moose sees them coming and shoots off into the trees opposite them, which seems to be the wisest choice, because the other two don’t stand a fucking chance against them right now.

Bev tackles -- literally tackles, like a fucking rugby player -- Vic, with an enraged scream. He goes down hard, the side of his head clipping a rock on the way to the ground and there’s immediately blood everywhere but that doesn’t deter her. Her fists collide with his face, over and over, and as everyone else catches up he’s already pushing her off and trying to scramble away.

Belch gets her from behind and drags her off but then Stan is yanking on the back of his shirt, not hard enough to _ move _ him but enough that his collar constricts around his throat and Richie doesn’t really see much after that. He’s preoccupied with Eddie, curled up on the ground, and the way he trembles even though no one is hurting him anymore. He doesn’t join his friends in kicking their bullies’ asses -- not for a lack of desire on his part to defend Eddie’s honour, but rather because, well… there has to be something left to defend. And Eddie looks a split second from shaking apart right here on the bank of the Kenduskeag.

He’s dropping to his knees at Eddie’s side before he’s registered his own actions, hands coming up to pry his arms away from his face. The moment his arm is jostled, Eddie shrieks and tenses, rolling onto his back so he can clutch it to his chest instead, and Richie’s heart sinks into his stomach. 

Yeah, it’s bad.

He slips a hand behind his back and helps him sit up, wiping some of the blood away from his face with the hem of the ugly floral-print button-up he’s wearing, but it just keeps coming, and there are big tears leaking from the eye that isn’t already swelling shut, and an odd kind of calm settles over Richie. Like he’s panicking so hard his body just shut down. 

Actually, that’s exactly what’s happening, he thinks, as he zeroes in on the way Eddie continues to clutch at his arm, which now hangs limp at his side. It doesn’t look broken the way it did that time he got hurt in the Neibolt house. It’s just… wrong, and hanging there, and his whole body jumps with heaving sobs.

Then, like clarity through the panic, _ ‘Please don’t try to set my fucking shoulder, Richie, you’re not a medical professional.’ _ And he has to open his mouth and laugh, a little bit because of the shock and a little bit because of course _ that’s _ what Eddie’s thinking of, through the _ hurthurthurthurtfear _ that pulses through the open wound between them, whether Eddie’s aware of letting that all slip through or not. 

A little bit because he doesn’t know how else to cope with the realization that Eddie’s shoulder is dislocated, and now that Eddie’s opened the floodgates it hits him hard enough to send him reeling. Intense, like fire, like creeping death, searing through his shoulder and chest and back around through his arm. It turns his stomach. Eddie’s shaking but he sets his jaw and tries to drag it all back in. He must’ve seen the pain reflected in Richie’s face. 

His hand touches his cheek, just under his swollen eye. _ ‘Don’t. It’s okay.’ _

And then instead of a response, he gets an image, a thought-shape, of a knife glinting in the sun and the cold, _ cold _ drip of fear in his belly, the deranged light in Vic’s eyes, and another heart-rending sobs tears itself out of Eddie’s lungs as he closes it all off again with an apology.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, out loud this time, pulling Eddie into a tentative embrace. He tries not to touch his injured arm but Eddie flinches anyway and he thinks, _ ‘Sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry,’ _ but Eddie responds with a barely-there, _ ‘Please don’t let go.’ _

Whether he was intended to hear it or not, he doesn’t care. He stays right where he is, pulling him in close and wishing he could do something as he watches Eddie cry in his arms and pretend not to be in so much pain. 

Above them, somewhere, there’s a _ thwack _ and a shout, clearly from Belch -- it sounds more like a roar.

Richie’s attention is momentarily torn between Eddie’s tear-streaked face and Belch bearing down on Bill, meaty hands clenched into fists. There’s nothing he can do from here, wrapped around Eddie, to stop him, but in the end he doesn’t have to. Mike crashes into him bodily, and throws him off balance -- Belch stumbles and slips down into the sluggish stream, spitting expletives.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you, you little nig--”

“Why don’t you go stick your dick back in your fucking mother, Reginald? No one needs to deal with you throwing hissy fits every five seconds, and no one fucking _ wants _ to.” Richie’s voice drips with venom, and it’s cathartic. He fears that if he doesn’t deal a mental blow to the bastard he’ll end up joining the scuffle anyway, if only to find an outlet for the anger coursing through him, because how dare they; _ how dare they _ hurt Eddie, how fucking dare they even _ try _ to hurt any of his friends. 

Belch, dragging himself out of the water, draws himself up to his full (and admittedly impressive) height, face contorted in fury, but he’s met with five Losers sizing him up and one who looks like he’s actively contemplating murder -- he is, a little bit, because Eddie shakes and whimpers against him and that’s _ not okay, _ that’s not how things are supposed to be. Eddie should be throwing insults at Belch just the same way. Should be making fun of Vic and Moose for scampering off like the pussies they are the second shit got tough.

But he presses closer into Richie’s chest and cries, and Richie lets the feelings of heartbreak and protective rage boil over into the glare he sends Belch, and then he’s gone, taking off in the same direction Vic went.

He doesn’t waste a second in crouching down closer to Eddie again, cupping a hand against the back of his head while Eddie exhales a tremulous breath against his shoulder. The veil he’s drawn to protect Richie from what he’s feeling shudders as Richie presses his nose into his hair and breathes, steady, silently asking him to follow suit. In through his nose, out through his mouth. Eddie’s fingers relax where they’ve been clinging fiercely to the front of Richie’s shirt and, _ ‘That’s good, like that,’ _ he praises, pushing comfort and reassurance Eddie’s way while he works to hide them from the rest of the Losers.

Not because he’s ashamed of the intimacy of the situation, but because he doesn’t want them exposed to Eddie’s suffering like this. It’s altogether too much, even from a distance.

“I think we need to go to the hospital,” he says, almost hesitant, when Eddie no longer sounds like he’s on the verge of an asthma attack. He doesn’t mean to make things worse, but this time the spike of fear definitely pierces through to the rest of the losers, who all flinch.

Richie finally looks at them -- Ben has a bloody nose now, too, and Bill is sporting a sizeable welt on his cheekbone, not to mention Bev’s bloodied knuckles -- all gathered around them at a respectable distance, all bearing some kind of sympathy as they watch Eddie dissolve again in Richie’s arms.

“I know. I’m sorry.” He’s quieter this time, enough so that it’s likely only Eddie can hear him, and Eddie shakes his head.

_ ‘Not going to the fucking hospital, you can’t make me, they’ll call my mom, not going there to get poked with fucking needles I don’t need a hospital I just need-- just--’ _ There’s a white-hot twinge up his shoulder that has Richie hissing through his teeth, grabbing at his own arm like that’s the actual source. 

“You said you want a medical professional to do it, Eds. That’s the only place--”

“I lied, I lied, you can do it, I don’t fucking care, I’m not going to the hospital; they’ll call my mom and I’ll never be allowed out of the house again, okay, just fucking… just do it, like when you fixed my arm in the Well House.”

“And then you went to the hospital _ anyway,” _ Richie continues for him, doing his damnedest not to mention that the state of Eddie’s face alone is going to be enough reason for his mother to lock him in his tower for the rest of eternity. 

“Muh-Mike, can you go get your gra-handpa’s truck?” Bill asks, and Eddie goes rigid. _ ‘I don’t think he fits in the bike-baskets anymore.’ _

**_‘No.’_** It’s emphatic, projected for all of them to hear, and instinctively Richie twists his body more securely around Eddie as if that will afford him extra protection from the fears he doesn’t want to face.

_ ‘Listen, it’s fine, we’ll just-- I dunno, we’ll just fuckin’ pretend you’re me or something and it’ll all go under my parents’ insurance and they won’t call--’ _

“They fucking know who I am, dipshit.” Eddie scrubs the tears away from his bruised face and winces at the pressure, but he makes no move to extract himself from Richie’s embrace. “As soon as I walk in there everyone knows who I am because my fucking mother drags me out there for every little fucking papercut, okay? There’s no point. I’m not going. Mike, don’t even fucking think about it.”

Mike freezes in the middle of setting his bike upright and has the decency to look sheepish. “I mean, we can’t leave it like that,” he defends, and then there’s a burst of uncertainty from Bev and all eyes turn to her.

“My aunt took a few years of nursing school. I mean, she dropped out to do journalism instead, so she’s not exactly a medical professional, but…”

Eddie’s relief is like a balm, sweeping through everyone’s head to soothe the jagged knots of anxiety that have been twisting around between them for several minutes. “Okay. Yeah, okay, let’s do that.”

It becomes immediately obvious that Eddie’s not going to be able to walk all the way to Bev’s apartment. Richie helps him to his feet with careful consideration for his injured arm, but he’s limping heavily and by the time they’ve walked barely ten metres through the trees he’s sweating, panting, and pallid. “I don’t--” he starts, swaying, and Richie’s pretty sure the arm he has slung around his waist is the only thing that prevents him from toppling over. 

The other Losers are following close around them, Bill balancing his own bike and Richie’s, since Richie is too busy supporting Eddie to deal with it. When Eddie stumbles, Bill drops them both and whips around to catch his other side, but Eddie tries to push him away, feebly insisting that he’s fine, he’s _ fine, _ just keep going.

“Mike…”

“On it.” Mike hops onto his own bicycle and pedals away furiously in the direction of the Hanlon farm. 

“I’m going to run ahead and make sure Aunt Eleanor’s home. Meet me there.” Richie nods frantically and she takes off in the opposite direction Mike went. 

_ ‘Alright, let’s at least get him up to the road,’ _ Bill orders, wrapping his arm around Eddie despite his protests, and Richie catches the concern about the way Eddie shakes between them before Bill can stamp it down. 

“We’ll come back for the rest of the buh-bikes,” he adds, when Stan and Ben struggle to collect them all. 

Richie urges Eddie forward, doing his damnedest to wrap his presence around his mind like a protective barrier, though that same worry that Bill couldn’t hide gnaws at his insides because this is worse, somehow, than usual. 

Eddie doesn’t say anything, too busy withdrawing, shutters closed as he struggles over the uneven terrain of the Barrens. His breath whistles from his lungs and it’s been years since Richie’s heard him sound that way -- thinks, perhaps too obtrusively, _ ‘Uh-oh, someone turn Eddie off! He’s reached the boil!’ _ but doesn’t garner any kind of reaction.

He all but collapses when they reach the shoulder of Kansas Street, landing in the grass with a grunt and another burst of pain that radiates through all of them at once. It’s full-body, this time, and Richie zeroes in on the purpling bruise spilling across his thigh, all the way up past the hem of his shorts, distinctly boot-shaped, and the second, smaller bruise encompassing his swelling knee.

He really, _ really _ thinks they should go to the hospital and he can’t quell the overflow of anxiety that bubbles up out of him as he drops to his knees beside Eddie and tries to decide whether or not to touch him. Eddie snaps back about not going to a fucking hospital in a voice that quakes and wheezes, failing to rein in the roiling waves of agony crashing over him, and Stan is beginning to look physically ill. 

_ ‘Go get the bikes,’ _ he insists, with a pointed look at the other three, and in seconds it’s just him and Eddie again, Eddie who looks half a second from falling apart, Eddie who’s half the size of Belch at _ best _ and _ that’s not fucking fair, _ Eddie who deserves the world and then some, but instead is stuck in this shithole town that’s clearly out to get him -- out to get them all.

“What’d they do?” he asks, almost tentative.

Eddie, as he expected, squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, sucking in another rattling breath that doesn’t seem to help much. He doesn’t have to say that he doesn’t want to talk about it because Richie can _ feel _ it. 

Instead, he shuffles a little closer, hands hovering but afraid to touch (not sure where he isn’t hurting), and asks, “What do you need?”

Eddie shakes his head harder, if anything, eyes still closed firmly against the world around them. “Dunno. I-I dunno.” There’s an _ ‘I just don’t want to feel like this’ _ drifting, fragmented, amongst those words and Richie can’t help the deep ache it rouses in him, because _ there’s nothing he can do to fix that. _

So he talks, because that’s what he does best, isn’t it? His mind’s eye flashes back to the sun-speckled banks of the stream, the warm rocks, the peace they left in the wake of the carnage, and snatches up a topic out of thin air. “Remember when you thought there were alligators in the Kenduskeag? Because of that time we all stayed up way late at Stan’s house and the only good thing on TV was that nature show, and you were, like, nine years old and gullible as fuck,” he rattles off with barely a pause for air, “And then you would _ flip out _ every time we tried to go down to the Barrens, because ‘they move so fast on land, too’, or whatever you kept saying, so we had to go to the actual fucking _ park _ to play Cops and Robbers all summer, like some kind of _ normal _ kids.”

Eddie stares, virtually unblinking, the whole time he’s talking, and suddenly he opens his mouth and croaks, “Crocodiles.”

“Huh?”

“I… I thought there were _ crocodiles _ in the Kenduskeag. And so did _ you, _ by the way.”

“What’s the difference, really?”

Eddie hums. Clicks his tongue. His eyebrows scrunch together in the middle. “I don’t actually know,” he admits, and -- even though it isn’t very funny at all -- he begins to laugh. 

Richie seizes that, calls it a win, and pushes onward, just to get Eddie through these next few minutes, until their friends are back, without losing him again. It’s still there, the pain. It hurts all the way up to his ears, an unrelenting buzz. Swarm of wasps. Won’t _ stop _ (maybe ever). 

But he can feel-hear his own voice fighting to drown it out. He’s only marginally successful.

It’s enough.

The _ buzz _ of static (wasp-stinger) pain is fading slowly to background noise while Eddie pours all his focus into listening to Richie. With a good distraction from the damage Criss and his cronies dealt, he doesn’t look so much like just outright keeling over anymore. 

The (one-sided) conversation segues into _ Crocodile Rock _ and then Elton John and then the banes and boons of life as a celebrity (“and, I mean, the _ tabloids, _ Eds, they’re vicious, my mom always says”) and suddenly the Hanlon’s mongrel truck is pulling up in front of them, just as Bev announces that her aunt is, in fact, home, and willing to deal with her injured friend without question. 

It’s as Richie’s trying to coax Eddie to his feet, as Mike is throwing the truck into park and scrambling out of the driver’s seat to just pick him up and get it over with, and as Ben, Bill, and Stan emerge from the trees behind them with the rest of the bikes in tow that something _ else _ finally registers with Richie. Something he’d missed in the jumbled-up panic inside of him about broken bones and dislocated joints, head injuries and swelling, bruising; knives too close for comfort. Something that got lost in the tide of Eddie’s pain because it’s trivial by comparison.

“Your shoes?” he says, like it’s a question, and Eddie’s just given up trying to stand, so he’s got his legs kicked out at awkward angles in front of him as they await Mike’s assistance, which makes it all the more obvious that all he’s got on his feet are a pair of muddied socks. He looks down at his feet now, looks back up at Richie, and tries to shrug with one shoulder. His eyes are kind of fading out again, but less like panic and hurt have taken over and more like resignation.

“They threw them in the stream,” he explains just as Mike worms one arm under his knees and the other behind his back. His face pinches as Mike lifts and Mike apologizes the whole six steps to the truck. Richie’s hands are quick to push him away, perhaps not entirely consciously, as soon as Eddie’s weight has been settled on the passenger seat. He crawls right in beside him, making the cab a tight fit. As he fusses and tries to help Eddie get comfortable, there’s metallic clanging from behind them as all their bikes are loaded into the bed and the rest of the Losers hop in with them. 

Bill’s palm hits the roof. _ ‘Good to go,’ _ he tells them, and Mike takes off up Kansas Street, the poor ancient Model A _ groaning _ and _ squeaking _ down the cracked asphalt. 

Eddie begins to laugh again. His eyes clear a little, again. “What’s wrong?” Richie asks, because this laughter sounds less amused than before. This laughter sounds halfway to crazy, and Richie _ knows _ crazy at this point -- he’s lived in fucking Derry his whole life, after all. 

“They threw my shoes in the Kenduskeag!” Eddie _ laughs _ and it comes out sounding more like sobs, and his body aches with each demented breath. “My mom’s gonna fucking kill me!”

“Eds--”

“Victor fucking Criss didn’t kill me today, but that’s alright! My mom will take care of it!”

Everything in him that’s hurting is agitated by his mounting hysteria, the shared pain in a dam he just can’t keep closed swelling up again to the point of being unbearable. One look at Mike and Richie can tell he’s feeling it, too.

“She won’t,” he tries to assure. _ ‘Mom’s can’t kill their kids.’ _ Hasn’t he said that before? Hasn’t he offered those exact words in the aftermath of a battle with forces beyond their wildest imaginations, in the dark recesses of Derry’s bowels? 

Haven’t they had this exact conversation, countless times now?

_ Inside _ he can hear the whisper of Eddie’s own reassurances to himself leaking through the cracks. The _ ‘She only loves you’ _ and _ ‘She just _ ** _worries’_ ** and _ ‘She just wants you to stay safe.’ _

Bev is saying something, nigh incoherent, directed at Eddie but the _ feeling _ of it (unusual for Bev) washes out over them like a valve’s broken. Not reassurance, but realism.

Eddie’s face pinches and Bev goes dreadfully quiet.

She’s already opening the passenger door when Mike brakes outside the dilapidated apartment complex, already reaching out to get her arms around Eddie even though Richie’s got it handled, _ thanks anyway, _ already trying to check over his injuries in the harsh sunshine bearing down on them all, out in the open like this.

Eddie insists on walking himself inside. He limps the whole way, and of course they’re all forced to deal with the outward radiation of his discomfort, and it’s slow -- _ slow _ \-- going, but they get inside and up the dimly-lit flight of stairs to the numbered door of Bev’s apartment, and her aunt throws the door open before Bev even gets a grip on the handle, ushering them in. 

She’s not a professional, not technically, but she knows what she’s doing better than the rest of them, at least, so they stand huddled around while Eddie perches on the edge of Bev’s bed and Eleanor makes him follow her finger with his eyes and feels all around his head and face for damage. All the while Richie, sitting a respectable distance away, feels something not unlike displeasure brewing in him, or maybe just brewing in Eddie, and he wants to maybe tell Eleanor that Eddie doesn’t exactly like when people he doesn’t know well touch him, but that’s hardly helpful. She _ needs _ to, to make sure he’s okay, and if Eddie wants someone to hose him down after so he doesn’t get the measles or whatever the fuck germs he thinks this lady must be carrying, then Richie will gladly oblige. 

She checks over his limbs and his reflexes, poking and prodding, asking him to flex his fingers and wiggle his toes, avoiding his right arm altogether until absolutely necessary. “Your knee is pretty badly bruised but nothing is broken or sprained, as far as I can tell. I’d still recommend seeing a proper doctor, especially considering your shoulder is _ definitely _ dislocated.”

“You can fix it, right?” There’s no fire behind that, not like usual, just a scared little kid trying to find a way out of the pain, and it’s the first thing Eddie’s said since he walked in the front door and Eleanor just goes all soft, even in her eyes. Richie feels (maybe _ all _ of them feel) that deep-down protective instinct come alive in her, the very same one they’re all intimately familiar with. The one that makes them do crazy things like fight sewer clowns for Bill’s sake and pick a fight with Victor Criss, certified serial-killer-in-the-making, to rescue Eddie.

The one that says, _ ‘I’d do anything for you,’ _ and _ means it. _

“Of course I can, hun. But there’s always a risk of things like nerve damage, or the joint not setting properly. Which is why you should _ always _ see a doctor after--”

“Maybe don’t tell him that,” Bev interrupts, as they all watch what little blood was left in Eddie’s face drain away and leave him ghost-pale. “He gets freaked out about stuff like that pretty easily.”

“It’s fine,” Eddie squeaks. (It is not fine.) “Just fix it. Please.”

“It’s going to hurt,” Eleanor tells him honestly. “Probably worse than when it happened.”

This time, instead of pretending, Eddie says, “I don’t think I needed to hear that,” with equal honesty -- they can _ all _ feel his stomach churn with anxiety at the prospect, and then it all clicks in at once. That no matter how much he tries to protect them from this, they’re going to _ feel _ it, to some extent. It’s not going to be drowned out by carefully-manufactured blockades, or by fear for his damn _ life, _ or a drawn-out, hopeless, perhaps somewhat subconscious cry for help, like it was when it happened. Right now it’s just him and the hot, white-out agony rolling through his shoulder where it cries, _ Put me back where I belong! Fix this! Fix this! Something is _ ** _wrong!_ **

It’s just _ that, _ and there’s nothing to protect them from it, and all around him Richie feels hands seeking out hands and bodies bracing for impact. 

Wisely, no one mentions this. Not out loud; not even in the shared space between their thoughts; not at all. 

This is their reality.

“I just want to make sure you’re prepared.”

“I am very prepared.” (This is a lie.)

Eleanor looks at the gaggle of Losers amassed behind him and gives them an out, unaware that it isn’t going to do jack shit in the end. “You might want to leave. This won’t be pretty.”

They don’t. 

They stay linked together like that, the chain only excluding Eddie and Richie, and observe as Eleanor makes him lie on his back with his right arm towards her. “You need to relax,” she tells him, and then tells him _ again _ as she tries to straighten out his arm and little lightning bolts of pain ripple through him (them). 

“Eddie, it’s nuh-nuh-not going to work ih-hif you don’t relax,” Bill tries to explain, but of course Eddie is tuning them all out and trying to _ keep _ them out so they can’t feel this, even though they can _ anyway. _ All this ordeal has done is leave him helplessly uninhibited in his expressions, in his connection through his shine, and his apologies are drowned out by the walls he’s trying to build up to protect them from it. 

Eleanor begins rotating his arm, just slightly, like the world’s slowest and gentlest handshake, once she’s got it straight beside him. Tears spring to his eyes and he gets _ more _ tense, if anything, and just as Eleanor reminds him again, softly, to _ please relax, _ Richie’s moving forward into his space (maybe on instinct) to _ fix it. _ He moves Eddie’s head onto his lap and puts his fingers in his hair, like he’s done a million times before, usually when Eddie is _ already _ relaxed and dozing at his side. Presses his fingertips all the way down to the roots and smooths his hair back from his forehead, tucks a stray strand behind his ear, digs his knuckles into the tense spots right above his temples. Eddie’s eyes flutter, going limp in spite of the still-sharpening pain of having his arm forcibly shifted upward, a little bit at a time, still letting out awful, high whimpers with each inch it’s raised, until there’s a click and a _ pop _ that _ sears _ through them all and he _ shrieks, _ trying to bolt upright but stopped by Richie’s grip on his head and Eleanor’s hand coming down on his chest. 

“Slow,” she insists. “Relax,” she tells him, once again. 

“I’m plenty relaxed,” Eddie gasps, chest heaving, limbs shaking. Richie cards thin fingers through his hair again while Eleanor helps him sit up, and through the fading nebulous-grey pain he wraps his arms around him (mostly around his head; tries to avoid aggravating his shoulder any more) and holds tight because he’s waiting for it to pass just as much as Eddie is. He pulls his glasses off and hides his face against the top of his head -- hides the tears pricking at his eyes, even though surely everyone else feels that, too -- until Eddie stops shaking against him and everyone else is piling onto the bed with a unified sigh of relief to join the hug.

Eleanor gives them that much. Steps back so they have their space, and when a few moments of silence-without-silence (silent room; busy minds) have passed, she says, “Eddie, I really do think you should see a doctor. There’s too much potential for long-term complications with injuries like this, and while I know you don’t want to hear that,” she adds, when several Losers open their mouths to protest, “I need you to have all the facts before you make a decision.”

“I’m not going to a doctor,” Eddie mumbles with finality, but it’s too clear it won’t be his decision in the end, will it?

He’ll put it off as long as possible, if he can, so when Eleanor offers for them to stay for lunch, phone calls are made to a few parents to explain absences and Eleanor goes to the trouble of buying Chinese takeout for all of them, despite their insistence that that’s much too expensive and they’d be more than happy with some pizza or something else cheap and easy. 

“You’re all very in-tune with each other, did you know that?” she says while they’re all gathered in the sparsely-furnished living room, scattered across the threadbare loveseat and worn hardwood floor to eat their lunch. Bill’s picking broccoli out of his stir-fry and dumping it on Stan’s plate wordlessly, faltering at her words. Richie turns from stealing Mike’s chicken while Mike pretends not to notice and grins wide at her. 

“Years of bein’ pals will do that to ya!” He slings an arm over Ben’s shoulder and tries to drag him into a half-nelson, only succeeding in getting rice in his hair from the chopsticks he’s still holding. Ben dives out of his grip the moment Richie’s hand comes in contact with the back of his head. “Aww, c’mon, Haystack. Don’t forfeit so easily.”

Ben sticks his tongue out at him from where he’s now sprawled on the floor by Bev’s feet, plate balancing precariously above him. “You’re supposed to pick on Eddie, not me.”

“Eddie’s off-limits for the time being, my guy.”

All eyes turn to Eddie, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care, too preoccupied with _ not _ falling asleep in his chow mein, which he’s been struggling to eat with his left hand even after swapping his chopsticks out for a fork. Eleanor put his right arm in a sling that he swore to take off before he goes home, as if _ that’s _ what his mother is going to notice. 

He won’t take a painkiller. His thoughts clouded over before any of them could figure out _ why _ or get into his head to coerce him. They all kind of know, anyway -- it’s not hard to figure out when he’s so bitter about taking the many, many pills that his mother forces on him and he’s so back-and-forth on whether or not they’re placebos (they _ are; _ they’ve _ established this, _ but Eddie’s a mess of anxiety at the best of times so there’s always “what ifs” and “maybes” clattering around in his fool head). He doesn’t want any unnecessary damn pills if he’s going to have any say in taking them.

They give him that much, despite Eleanor’s concern about his pain level and her advisory that this is still going to hurt for _ weeks _ until it’s done healing properly. She doesn’t push it. The Losers don’t push it.

Eddie sits on the couch, drained of all the anxious energy that seems to keep him going throughout the day. Whatever he was running on while Eleanor tended to his injuries has worn off and he’s just empty and cold now.

Richie expresses this sentiment perhaps too loudly, because finally -- _ finally _ \-- his eyes flick up to look at him and he frowns and it hurts somewhere Richie didn’t know existed before. Because for once in his life he looks _ truly _distraught and too much like he’s holding it in (and he could be -- he very well could be, since he decided to go all radio-silence on them as soon as he regained control). 

He doesn’t _ need _ to be in his head to know he feels like garbage. _ Anyone _ would feel like shit after an ordeal like that. 

“You wanna lie down?” he asks without really meaning to -- it isn’t exactly his place to offer that, anyway, but something tells him Eddie needs to sleep. And he’s smart enough to know that the last thing Eddie wants right now is to go home. 

Eddie nods. He’s still all shiny-eyed and his bottom lip juts out and the fork is still pinched awkwardly between the fingers of his left hand. Richie looks to Bev for guidance.

“You can sleep in my bed, it’s fine,” she offers. She’s perched on the edge of the coffee table so she barely has to turn to take his plate from his lap and help him stand. “C’mon, c’mon, you look like you’re gonna fall over.”

“I might.” He laughs humorlessly. 

Bev doesn’t let Richie follow them, and she doesn’t come back out of her room for a long while after, and he _ tries _ so hard to eavesdrop on them through the bond that it probably looks like he’s trying to burn holes through the door with his eyes. It’s fruitless.

Eddie sleeps for two hours. 

They all feel it when he wakes up because there’s an opening, between the stillness and silence of his dreamless sleep, and proper awareness, that allows some of the _ feeling _ to slip through to the rest of them and _ yeah, _ they can’t stop themselves from visibly reacting to it. Fortunately Eleanor is at the kitchen table putting together an article about the AIDS epidemic and its impact on Portland, something she’s already complained “won’t get published anyway, no matter how many interviews I do.”

(Richie kept his mouth firmly shut about that one, for once in his life.)

They can all conclude that Eddie’s probably going to want those painkillers now, based on that split-second of being in his head, so Bev brings them to him with a glass of water, and she comes back out of the room with them still in her hand and Eddie hobbling along behind her. He doesn’t look as if he slept at all.

The bruises on his legs are viciously black-and-purple already. Bev’s loaned him one of her shirts, apparently, since his was covered in blood -- just a worn _ Blondie _ t-shirt, probably something she uses as pyjamas just the way Richie does with some of his rattier band merch. It’s just baggy enough that they can see the equally-distressing bruising that creeps up towards his throat from where his shoulder was popped out of place. Stan’s throat clicks when he swallows and he has to turn away to stare at the television instead, where they’ve all been pretending to be invested in _ The Simpsons. _ Richie’s too busy thinking that if maybe he weren’t trying so hard to be a pacifist he’d probably return the favour to Victor Criss tenfold -- _ maybe _ dislocate _ all _ of his joints and see how he likes it -- to pay any attention to what’s actually happening on the T.V.

There are two browning spots of blood showing through on the bandage Eleanor stuck to his forehead against his will. Somehow he manages to look worse _ now _ than he did when they first dragged him in here, and Eleanor looks up from her work to frown and say, “I _ know _ you don’t want to hear this, but I may just drag you to the hospital myself.”

Eddie pauses in the doorway and responds with, of _ all things, _ “No, thank you,” before shuffling the rest of the way into the living room and flopping back on the couch beside Richie. 

_ ‘I should go home,’ _ he tells them tentatively, even as he settles back against the threadbare cushions, close enough that Richie can feel the heat radiating from his swollen shoulder as his body tries to figure out what the _ fuck _ to do with that kind of injury. 

They may only be kids, technically, but they’re mature enough to have figured out for themselves that Eddie does _ not _ want to be coddled when he’s sick or hurt. He wants to power through things like this on his own, and he doesn’t want the Losers or his mother or anyone else trying to tend to his every need. 

He’s a tough motherfucker.

That doesn’t mean that tough motherfuckers don’t _ need _ help, sometimes, or that they don’t _ need _ to see a doctor, ever, or that everyone should avoid them like the plague when they’re insisting on figuring shit out on their own. 

Richie kind of beckons to Bev in his head and she doesn’t even look to acknowledge it, just heads right back out of the room and comes back with two bags of ice that she just passes to Eddie without a word. He’s about to protest -- they can feel it coming -- so Bev plops one bags on his shoulder and he shuts the fuck up about it instantly. 

_ It’s not coddling, _ Richie reasons. _ It’s just providing him with the resources to help _ ** _himself._ **

Now they’ve just got to figure out how to keep him from home as long as possible, because they may want to help him but his deep-seated hatred of hospitals is enough to drive any of them crazy and even Mike agrees that if he’s not in any immediate danger, then putting it off for a while for his peace of mind is fine.

Which is how they end up taking Mike’s truck to Rosa’s to get dinner, because they can’t make Eleanor get them _ more _ food after she was so hospitable, and on the way out they make very subtle promises to her to get him proper medical care at the earliest opportunity, whether that’s because he finally relents and allows them to take him to a doctor or -- God forbid -- they take him home and Sonia Kaspbrak loses her entire goddamn mind about it.

The latter is seeming more likely as they wrap up dinner and take a silent ride around town (silent aside from the protesting _ clunks _ of the engine) to drop everyone off, one by one, until Bill is refusing to get out of the truck until they’ve _ dealt with this. _

“He doesn’t wanna go, Big Bill,” Richie insists, ignoring that little voice of reason inside crying, _ ‘He should! He should! Go anyway!’ _ And then what? Mrs. Kaspbrak flips her shit on all of them for not informing her before taking him to the hospital? It’s where he’ll end up, anyway. They’re just delaying the inevitable.

Still… Richie eyes Eddie where he’s passed out again with his head on Bill’s shoulder and-- and he _wants_ to respect his wishes. He also wants to tell Mike to take them to Derry Home Hospital right this instant. He wants to go back in time and punch Vic Criss in his stupid ugly mug before he can ever lay a fucking hand on him. He wants to go back _further_ and feed the rest of the Bowers’ buddies to the clown from Hell and see where that gets them _today; _if it’s something better than watching the play-by-play of a bruise forming around his eye where Victor punched him or holding him while he tried not to scream as Eleanor put his shoulder back in place or try to pry some _detailed_ information about the events of the day from a mind that’s pretty much on lockdown one hundred percent of the time. 

Except then Eddie’s head rolls a little and his eyes flutter open and he croaks, “If you take me to the hospital, I’ll never forgive you.” And, well, _ fuck -- _ that’s that on that. 

They drive laps around the suburbs, until the truck really sounds like she can’t take it anymore, if only because Eddie fell asleep again and none of them have the heart (or the guts) to wake him up -- they just pop a tape into the player and whisper to each other over the sounds of _ Earth, Wind, and Fire _ while Mike drives them through the streets without a license, something they all doubt anyone would give two shits about anyway. The mongrel is close to smoking by the time they stop down the block from Eddie’s house and Bill shifts uncomfortably in his seat, doubts about waking him up flooding into all their heads, and _ I just feel bad, _ and, _ maybe we should just stay here awhile. _

But Eddie wakes up anyway, lifting his head to look around the cabin and asking, _ ‘Why’d we stop?’ _

Richie leaps in before anyone can answer with, “Do you wanna just stay at my house tonight?” which seems to confuse him until he looks out the window and realizes where they are, and how dark it’s getting.

“Oh,” he breathes. Then, “No, I gotta go home, my mom’s gonna kill me.”

Bill walks him to the door because he can’t do it himself, despite his many and varied protests on the matter, but also because she hates Mike for the colour of his skin and she hates Richie for who he is as a person, or something.

They’re bombarded with the screeching, frantic questions that pour through from where Bill is trapped on the front porch of the Kaspbrak residence, listening to Sonia blow a fuse over the state of her son, while he just ever-so-politely tries to explain what happened and Sonia somehow manages to find a way to blame him, anyway, and, “My baby would never get himself into situations like this if it weren’t for you and your terrible little friends! What’s a boy like you doing spending time with homos and negroes and sluts like that, huh? You're a bad influence on him. Always setting a terrible example! You’d do well to stay away from them if you don’t want to end up like this, and if you ever think you’ll see my Eddie again!” The door slams in Bill’s face and Eddie’s apologizing, over and over, trying to keep up an argument with his mom and a mantra of, _ ‘I’m sorry, Bill, I’m so sorry, I told you to let me go on my own, I didn’t want her to yell at you, I’m so sorry.’ _

Richie doesn’t know if he’s ever hated her more.

She takes Eddie to the hospital anyway, which they all expected, but it still manages to come as a surprise to Eddie himself, as the whole car ride there he laments that he, _ ‘...told her not to, I don’t wanna go, I’m _ ** _fine,_ ** _ it barely hurts anymore.’ _ (That’s a lie if Richie’s ever heard one, but he chooses not to make that comment because Eddie’s already having a rough go of it.)

They get to share in his wallowing for the entire miserable ordeal of sitting around in the emergency room while his body aches and throbs and begs him for more sleep. They get to listen in on snippets of Mrs. Kaspbrak reprimanding her son for -- from the sounds of it -- his entire life. 

One by one, as the night drags on, the Losers fall asleep, until it’s just Bill-Richie-Eddie again, and they’re trying to keep each other awake as much as they’re trying to keep Eddie’s spirits up. Bill calls Richie names and Richie throws them back in his face and Eddie’s a cloud of gloom. Richie listens to terrible pop music on the radio, loud as he dares, and Bill sits up with a flashlight and reads them stories he’s pieced together on his typewriter, and Eddie’s miserable.

Bill falls asleep. Richie envies that. He also doesn’t. Richie’s got a restless mind and a fiercely aching shoulder and a worry that he’s half-convinced is overbearing gnawing at his gut. Richie wishes none of today had happened so he could just be sleeping already and free of these discomforts that just keep piling up, but he also wishes none of it had happened because he can hardly _ stand _ to see his friends hurting like that. Something about seeing Eddie hurt makes his head go all fuzzy and puts him somewhere that isn’t quite himself. Self-adjacent. It isn’t a good feeling. It makes his guts squirm and his chest heavy. 

He’s _ here _ for him, at least, even if it’s only to crack shitty jokes while he slaps himself awake every few minutes and tries to help shake some of that melancholy, hospital-imprisoned feeling out of Eddie, with minimal success. They haven’t even got out of the waiting area yet. Apparently Mrs. Kaspbrak screaming at receptionists just doesn’t work there anymore.

The emergency room is never a fun place to be, and it’s worse when your only real company is Sonia Kaspbrak, who won’t let you have any of the snacks from the vending machine because of your “allergies” and how “terrible” sugar is, but apparently she has no qualms helping herself to any of that shit. Richie feels himself hating her again.

_ ‘I’ll sneak you a PB&J,’ _ he offers. _ ‘And don’t start on being allergic to peanut butter. You and I both know that’s a tall tale. I’ll bike down to the hospital right now with a sandwich, maybe two, and we can sit outside under the stars and have a moonlight picnic and get eaten alive by mosquitoes.’ _

This doesn’t make Eddie laugh. _ ‘I’m really sorry about all this,’ _ he says glumly. _ ‘You should sleep. It’s late. I’m really sorry.’ _

Maybe it’s just that Richie Tozier hates the whole universe for ever daring to hurt his friends.

* * *


	26. Mike's infallible persuasive talents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very slight content warning for homophobic threats?? Idk if that makes sense. I also don't know how else to phrase that without spoiling things.

* * *

August 1992

* * *

Mike goes out of his way to come pick him up. Eddie doesn’t miss that. 

He also doesn’t have any complaints, honestly, because he’s in no condition to fight for himself if the situation calls for it, and besides, he’s still having a bit of trouble with his bike anyway. His shoulder still acts up when he keeps it in one position like that for too long, and the bruising around his knee is only just fading and leaves a residual ache to give him grief when he tries to use the pedals. 

Mike got an earful about using the Model A on the roads like that when the damn thing is prehistoric and hardly counts as a vehicle by now, so even if it was running right now he wouldn’t drive it over to pick Eddie up. No, they try out that thing they used to do for shits and giggles -- and that one time when he broke his arm at the Well House, but he’s not gonna think about that, he decides -- and Mike lifts Eddie up to sit in the basket on the front, the very same one he uses for deliveries, while Eddie hisses out a laugh between his teeth and Mike smiles all bright-white and dimpled. “I still kinda fit, see? Bill was wrong.”

“I’m honestly surprised you remember that conversation,” Mike says as he knocks the kickstand back into place and starts off down the street. Mrs. Kaspbrak is at work until four, and Eddie did all his chores around the house first thing this morning, so he’s got the whole day to waste at the Hanlon farm. When she comes home she’ll ask if he ended up going to Bill’s and he’ll tell her,  _ “No, mommy, him and I just went down to the baseball field and we watched the boys play,” _ (so she can’t call to ask his parents about it) and she’ll get all pouty about one thing or another, as she often does. It’ll be,  _ “I hope you sat in the shade, Eddie-bear, you know too much exposure to the sun can give you cancer!” _ or, as it’s often been lately,  _ “I’m not so sure I trust that boy with you, anymore,” _ and they’ll get to have that fun conversation again about how Bill had nothing to do with it, and had been the one (the  _ only _ one, in this version of the story) to pick up Eddie and dust him off and try to patch him up before bringing him home, and  _ he only wants what’s best for me, mommy, _ which she loves to counter with,  _ “How could anyone else know what’s best for you?” _ Bill  _ still  _ manages to be one of the only people in the whole world Sonia Kaspbrak trusts to  _ any _ degree to keep her poor, fragile baby alive while she’s not around, even after she chewed him out on their front stoop while Bill stood tall and calm and Eddie tried to defend him.

_ “I want to see Bill,” _ he’d told her this morning, and she’d made a show of considering it before conceding, maybe because she knows keeping him from his friends forever is never going to work. Not when it’s  _ her _ idea.  _ Only Bill, _ was the compromise, and now Eddie’s been forced to make Bill create some story about them spending the day together because really, he just wants to go to Mike’s and help out with the damn truck, and  _ why _ can’t his mom just  _ let that be? _

“I remember all of it,” he tells him honestly. He sure does. From the way Belch twisted his arm up while Moose stomped on his shoulder  _ hard, _ to the way Vic Criss traced over his cheeks with the knife and threatened to fuck him with it,  _ like any good little queer boy would want, huh? I bet a soft little priss like you is good at taking it up the-- _ He shakes away the grey haze of panic that begins to cloud around him. He remembers  _ yelling _ at his friends about how he didn’t want to go to the stupid fucking hospital when it was just an inevitability, always was, and he was just trying to stop it from happening altogether by any means necessary even though he  _ knew _ it was pointless. Even though the nurses there pumped him full of painkillers  _ anyway, _ after a four-hour wait for a room, and he was too afraid to tell them _ no _ in front of his mom in case she decided there must be something else wrong with him, on top of what Criss and his buddies did. 

He remembers Richie holding him while he was hurting and is ashamed, rightfully so, at how remembering  _ that _ makes him feel. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mike says behind him, and he can’t see his face but he  _ hears _ that it’s solemn, and he shrugs with just his good shoulder and says, “Not much worse than what Bowers used to do,” but it kind of is, isn’t it? 

Bowers kept a knife, too, a switchblade with his initials engraved on it, and he’d use it to intimidate kids on the playground and get his way at school, if there weren’t any teachers around to catch him. He’d threaten to carve them up, and one time even tried it with Ben, but he’d never gone as far as Vic Criss wanted to go, and Eddie had never been able to feel the  _ malice _ that must have rolled off Bowers in great stinking waves back then, but he’d sure felt it when Criss was pinning him to the ground with the tip of the blade dancing under the eye he  _ just _ punched, talking about what it would be like to  _ gut him, like a little animal, _ and the  _ glee _ he’d said it with. Like it was all such a fun game. 

There wasn’t anything he could’ve done to stop them, anyway, and if there’s one thing he hates more than feeling like a coward, it’s feeling weak. It’s… feeling  _ helpless. _

Like not even Maturin could do anything to save him in that moment. (Oh, but he had, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he -- or  _ something _ at his whim -- gifted them the ability to cry out for help in the moments they needed it most?)

_ All _ he had at his disposal was the power to ask for help.

What a strangely human problem, for a group of kids with decidedly not-human abilities. 

The bike slows to a stop and Mike’s asking, silently, if he’s alright,  _ because you’re kinda zoning out-- _ but then there’s a flurry of yipping from around the side of the farmhouse and a black-white-tan blur comes flying towards them, probably clocking mach 1. 

Everything bad Eddie was just thinking drains away just like that as he cries, “Buttercup!” and scrambles to get out of the bike basket even before Mike can finish helping him. He crouches to greet her and the dog bowls him over, careless of his injuries, little paws jumping around his chest while she licks his face. He can’t bring himself to care about allergies or germs  _ (“Dog saliva is full of bacteria that can literally kill you; can make your limbs rot; can turn your brain to mush,” _ his mother’s voice tries to tell him) because Buttercup is perfect in every conceivable way and if she wants to kiss his cheeks then she can kiss his cheeks, and he’s not going to have the heart to stop her.

While Eddie is busy drowning in affection from the wriggly bundle of Collie in his arms, shrieking with laughter while she tries to lick his ears and her tail thumps enthusiastically against his belly, Mike hurries off up the drive to where Leroy Hanlon is shaking hands with a man several years his junior before drawing him into an embrace. Mike’s all but leaping onto the poor man to hug him, too, as soon as his grandpa has let go, and the stranger throws his head back and laughs as they nearly overbalance, red corkscrew curls flying while his smile lights up eyes so pale blue they’re almost white. 

“--more like your old man every day, you know that?” he’s saying as Eddie carries Buttercup over to the house while she continues to lap at his chin and cheeks.

“Gramps tells me that at least once a week,” Mike answers honestly, while the man claps him on the shoulder and smiles impossibly big. 

“You gotta stop growin’ when I’m not around, you know. You’re almost bigger than me, an’ people always telling me how I’m an intimidating kinda guy. Hulk-like, they say.” And there’s an uproar about that, which Eddie can understand without even knowing who the hell this is, because he’s thin as a twig and a good three inches shorter than Mike already. 

“Imagine how I feel,” Mr. Hanlon is saying as he stops near the bottom step and Buttercup wiggles free of his grip to leap at the gathering of men on the porch. Three heads turn to her, then up towards Eddie. 

Mike hops back down the steps to throw an arm over his shoulders. “This is Eddie. He’s one of my best friends.” And, like,  _ yeah, _ Eddie  _ knows that, _ but it makes him go all warm to hear it out loud, all the way from his toes to his ears, a great big grin lighting up his eyes. 

“Dewey Conroy. I was a good friend of Will Hanlon’s, God rest his soul. I’ve known li’l Mikey here since he was just a tot.” His hand comes up and for a split second Eddie thinks,  _ ‘Oh fuck I gotta shake his hand’ _ \-- he  _ doesn’t know _ this guy and doesn’t want to be touched by him, no offense intended -- but instead he reaches up to tip an invisible hat at him and winks. “Pleased to meet ya.”

“You as well,” he says politely, because his mother didn’t raise a rude boy, relief washing through him and settling his nerves. 

“I see not much has changed ‘round here. You start a fight or finish one?” Dewey Conroy asks, and Eddie grimaces. There are still traces of bruises all over him and the last remnants of scabbing where he got all cut-and-scraped-up in the tussle with Criss -- little nicks from the knife he was almost careless with, the wound on his forehead that his mom tried to coerce the doctors to stitch up even though he didn’t need it, the places his elbows and knees split open when he was bowled over from behind by Moose’s massive weight (and the wicked laughter when he cried out in shock and pain).

“Neither.”  _ Got my ass kicked for being a little queer, is all, and I guess I might as well have deserved it. _ “Just ran into the wrong people.”

“Aye, yeah, lots of them in these parts. Good thing you got a big, tough fella like this to defend you, then, huh?” And he pats Mike’s shoulder and laughs while Leroy Hanlon says, halfway to amused, “You and I both know Mike’s a pacifist, much as one can be. Kid cried when he stepped on a snail last week.”

Eddie knows this is true, and feels Mike blush fiercely beside him. He also knows it’s true that he pushed Belch Huggins into the Kenduskeag and didn’t think twice about it, even though it didn’t hurt him much, so he knows Mr. Conroy is a little bit right about that, anyway. 

“Will you be staying long?” Mike asks, hopeful, when the laughter dies out.

Mr. Conroy shakes his head. “Sorry, kiddo. I’m on my way out. I was just passin’ through on my way to Bangor. Thought I’d take a little countryside detour to see my favourite nephew. And I suppose this sweet little girl, too, huh?” He crouches to rub Buttercup’s ears while her tail wags madly behind her, paws tapping out a frantic beat on the wooden steps because she just  _ can’t _ stand still.

Mr. Conroy exchanges his goodbyes with the Hanlons and tells Eddie again how nice it was to meet him before departing, Buttercup attempting to follow him into his mud-streaked pickup. They wave him off all the way down the drive. 

“Well, you kids here for playdate or what?”

“Eddie’s gonna help me fix up the truck, grandpa.”

Mr. Hanlon nods, dark eyes gleaming in his weathered face as he says, “Ah, yup, yup. You know what you’re doing, Eddie?”

“To an extent,” he answers, and it’s as honest as he can get. He  _ for sure _ knows what he’s doing, even if he doesn’t quite know  _ how, _ like how he could find his way home if someone dropped him in the middle of another state or how he can read his friends’ minds even though he  _ shouldn’t _ be able to do that --  _ none of them _ should be able to do that. It doesn’t bother him the way it bothers Stan, sometimes, knowing they’re something unnatural. Something that shouldn’t be. 

Eddie couldn’t even name most parts of a car but he can look inside and know exactly how to fix it, and he isn’t sure  _ why. _ Or maybe Zack Denbrough was just that good at teaching kids how to fix up cars, back when he could actually be bothered to teach any of them anything. Maybe it’s something he inherited from his dad, but that sounds impossible (doesn’t  _ everything _ about them sound impossible, at this point?)

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Mike tells him gently, then to his grandfather, says, “Eddie’s probably got this handled better than the mechanics down on Center Street.”

“Yeah?” Leroy Hanlon swats a fly away with his baseball cap and presses a cigar between his teeth as he settles down on the porch steps, just outside the sun’s reach. “Better hope. Those dunces don’t know what the hell they’re doing with anything over twenty years old, I tell ya, and what’s the point in that? Can’t help half the town that way.”

Mike bites back a laugh and starts steering Eddie towards the barn, while his grandpa calls after them, “You let me know if you need somethin’!”

“Sure thing, sir!”

The rusted double-doors on the west side of the barn are propped open, the poor, ancient truck sitting silent inside with cinder blocks jammed against the front tires. The hood is popped already and Eddie goes straight to it, Mike following close behind and Buttercup even closer. “I keep telling him we gotta get rid of her and try to get something that’ll function, but he doesn’t want to because it… well, because it belonged to him and my dad, back when they ran the farm together, so it’s got sentimental value.”

Eddie nods, already poking around under the hood, getting grease stains on the gloves Mike left out for him.  _ ‘Makes sense.’ _ He’s got a pretty strong attachment to some of his dad’s old stuff, so he can’t really judge Mr. Hanlon for wanting to keep a vehicle that’s composed more out of replaced parts than its original materials. Hell, the doors are two different colours and two different materials, and both of  _ those _ are completely different from the body of the truck, and the hood looks like someone bent a sheet of metal out of shape and screwed it on with some mismatched hinges.

It’s a literal miracle this thing has still been running. It’s gonna need a whole new miracle to get up and running  _ again, _ and Eddie’s nothing if not well-acquainted with weird little miracles. 

Mike makes himself comfortable in the driver’s seat while Eddie explores the inner machinations of the dingy old truck, already talking to him about how life has been. He’s re-reading  _ The Lord of the Rings, _ to no one’s surprise, and he’s recounting his favourite parts in detail even though Eddie’s already seen them as they played through Mike’s mind while he pulled all-nighters trying to get through as much of the story as possible, every scene parsed out to perfection in his mind’s eye, the way he visualizes things as they pass through his head always blowing them away. It’s nice to hear it again. It’s nice to  _ see _ it again. Especially when Mike gets almost  _ giddy _ about it, big bright smile glowing in his eyes the whole time. 

It makes the work easier. 

“You ever think about working for the mechanic?”

“Huh?”

“Well, you’ve got a pretty good idea of what you’re doing, and you’re here doing it for free, so I just thought,” Mike shrugs, “why not make some money?”

Eddie leans against the side of the truck and peers down at Mike through the open window. “I’m only fifteen. No way they’d hire me. Not to mention my mom would probably have a conniption if she found out I was doing something ‘dangerous’ like fixing cars.”

Mike giggles a little at that. “Why, what’s she  _ want _ you to do?”

Eddie shrugs. “Boring office job, probably. The kind where you lose your mind sitting at a desk all day, filing paperwork.”

“Oh, yeah.” Mike hums. Eddie can feel the sarcasm coming on, a rare treat from Mr. Michael Hanlon, certified saint. “That definitely sounds like you. Like you wouldn’t be off-the-walls, cooped up in a cubicle all day. You’ll probably even get a computer to just stare at, day in and day out. Sounds like a treat.”

He rolls his eyes but he can’t stop the playful smile off his face. “Doesn’t it? Bet it pays well.”

“Being a mechanic pays better.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

“Oh, okay. Yeah. You’re the expert on career paths, now?”

“Sure am.”

Eddie looks at Mike and Mike looks at Eddie and they both burst out laughing in perfect synchronization.

“Well, you’re in luck, because we actually  _ do _ have to go to the mechanic and get new spark plugs. Maybe I’ll hand them my blank resume while we’re there and they’ll say, ‘Wow, this child is an ideal candidate for a position here! Let’s hire him!’ and then I’ll be rich!”

Except then Mike actually asks, and the owner -- Mr. McKinley, a stout balding man with an enormous red nose -- actually pulls Eddie into the garage and starts asking him questions, starts telling him they’re always looking to take on apprentices, and all Eddie can do is stare, open-mouthed. 

“Helps that it’s summer. You kids’ve got lots of free time in the summer, lots of time to pick up some new skills instead of playing video games all day, but damned if you don’t always choose video games over anything else, huh?” he’s saying in a gruff-but-friendly voice, and Eddie’s thoughts leap to Richie, who is, in fact, playing video games with Bev right at this moment. “But, hell, if you wanna learn, no better place to start.”

“I’m only fifteen,” Eddie says dumbly, and Mr. McKinley barks out a laugh. 

“A-yuh. I can tell. Hell, you look younger than even that. No one said there was an age limit on learning to fix a car, did they?”

And, well,  _ fuck, _ he doesn’t suppose there is one, after all. Zack Denbrough started showing him the ins and outs of his old fixer-uppers when he was barely seven. Frank Kaspbrak used to let Eddie sit and watch while he worked on Sonia’s Pacer back in the day. And if Mr. McKinley says he’s willing to take on an apprentice at  _ fifteen? _ When the hell else is he gonna get a chance?

“Would you really? Let me work here?” he asks, awestruck, and from where Mike is standing by the doorway there’s a tickle of amusement. 

“I’ll let you  _ learn _ here, and I’ll pay you for your help. How’s that sound?” And Eddie thinks that sounds like just about the most wonderful thing in the world, and something beyond his wildest imagination, and  _ he’d just been joking with Mike about it, he didn’t mean it seriously, but maybe part of him did. _ He thinks he’d kill for a job like this, something hands-on that keeps him moving and keeps him guessing, something he already knows he can be  _ good _ at.

He blinks away stars and tells Mr. McKinley, “That sounds amazing.”

“Great! How do you feel about getting your hands dirty?”

Well, not the  _ best, _ but they can work around that.

  
  


He doesn’t remember until later, back at the farm, that his mom will wholly disapprove of this choice. It seems like a lot of things that make him happy are things she doesn’t like. 

Could just be that a lot of those things could be potentially dangerous, which makes him wonder out loud if maybe he’s a thrill-seeker, which in turn makes Mike laugh so hard he chokes on the iced tea they brought out to the barn with them. “Eddie, you won’t eat the hot dogs from the stand at Bassey park. What part of that screams, ‘thrill-seeking’, exactly?”

He’s going to get defensive about that, but Mike’s  _ right. _ Because he’s seen the way they run that stand and those hot dogs just sit out in the sun all day until the guy so old he’s probably prehistoric grills them, because for some reason he can’t be bothered to use some goddamn  _ ice _ or anything, and on top of  _ that _ he doesn’t wear gloves or a hair net, and Mike  _ knows _ this but he’s just teasing. Eddie sticks his tongue out at him, like a mature person who is winning an argument. “I’m just saying, I keep doing stuff my mom considers dangerous without even really meaning to, sometimes.”

“Have you considered that maybe your mom’s definition of dangerous is kind of fucked, dude?” 

Eddie stands up so fast he whacks his head on the poorly-molded hood of the truck and belts out a string of expletives just as Richie and Bev stroll through the barn doors. “For fuck’s sake, Richie, don’t sneak up on me.” 

“Aw, is your poor widdle noggin gonna be alright?” Richie asks in a dumb baby-voice as he pouts teasingly, and Eddie shoots him the finger. “You want me to kiss it better?”

Bev howls with laughter as Richie advances, making awful kissy-faces, and Eddie starts calling him every terrible name under the sun, shoving at him with the filthy gloves still on his hands even as he tries not to laugh right alongside her. 

“You’re a menace! Stop bothering me while I’m trying to help Mike! Why are you even here?!” he demands, once Richie’s got him all but pinned against the truck and is squishing him in an enthusiastic hug that he returns anyway. 

“For the dog, obviously.” Richie relinquishes his grip and gestures to where Bev is practically being mauled with affection. He turns back to Eddie and smirks, winking at him. “What, you thought I’d come here to visit  _ you?  _ My Eds? Light of my--?”

“You are so fucking ridiculous,” Eddie snaps, ignoring that soft-and-hopeless warmth that blooms somewhere deep in his chest whenever Richie says stuff like that.  _ He doesn’t mean it and it’s not okay to  _ ** _want_ ** _ him to, _ he tries to tell himself. 

“That’s my middle name, you know.” Richie circles around the truck to peer under the hood and starts playing with shit, as if he’s got any clue what he’s doing, and doesn’t even look up when Eddie makes an indignant noise and swats his hands away. “Heard you got yourself a job, bigshot.”

_ “Mike!” _ Eddie rounds on him, planting his hands on his hips before remembering he’s still wearing dirty gloves and doesn’t want to stain his clothes, and that he’s going to have to get himself a few pairs of coveralls if he’s going to work in a garage like he wants so bad. 

“What?” Mike asks innocently, sidling up to Richie to try to give him a noogie that quickly turns into a half-assed wrestling match, and then into an embrace while they both giggle like idiots. “I thought good news was meant to be shared?”

Eddie  _ huffs. _ “I mean, yeah, except I don’t even know yet if my mom will  _ let _ me.”

“Better to ask forgiveness than permission,” Richie says, clasping his hands together as if in prayer, and wasn’t it peaceful in here five minutes ago? What happened to that?

“Have you  _ met _ my mother?”

“Yeah, she’s a raging bitch, I am aware.”

Eddie’s jaw pops open like it’s spring-loaded.  _ “Richie,” _ he gasps, “you can’t just say that!”

Richie leans over the truck’s engine, fingers curling over the rusted-to-shit edge of the fender and he doesn’t look nearly as playful as usual when he asks, quietly, “Am I wrong?”

“Yes!” Eddie cries, and he leans forward, too, pressing back into Richie’s space, and he’s not sure if he’s actually mad at him or he’s just being drawn into the argument because Richie is good at dragging him along no matter what the situation is. “She’s my  _ mom, _ jackass.”

“Huh.” Richie doesn’t push it. Richie doesn’t do  _ anything _ with it, not even make some kind of nasty joke about his inappropriate relations with Mrs. K, or call Eddie a dumb name. He just says  _ ‘huh’ _ and his eyebrows squeeze together and he looks over at Bev, who’s cradling the puppy in her arms and praising her, one eye trained on her friends, and then he just  _ shrugs _ and smiles all happy-go-lucky and says, “Well, I need a smoke. Let me know when you’re done fixing this hunk a’ junk up and maybe we can take her for a spin! Bev?”

“Yup.” Bev puts the dog down and follows him out of the barn, tossing a, “Be right back,” over her shoulder on the way.

“We cannot ‘take her for a spin,’ you guys!” Mike calls after them.  _ ‘The damn thing is one pothole away from falling apart!’ _

He doesn’t get a response from either of them, so he shrugs and joins Eddie back at the side of the truck, peering in to watch his handiwork. “Speaking of your mom.”

Eddie doesn’t know what it is that makes him freeze where he is, halfway to reaching into the painfully disorganized toolbox Mike brought out for him to work with. There’s an uncertain note to his voice and when he looks up Mike is pointedly avoiding his gaze.

“How are… things at home?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, with you and your mom? How’s she…” He hesitates for a terribly long time, turning the phrasing of the question over and over until he lands on, “Do you get along?”

And, to be fair to him, Eddie supposes, every interaction Mike has had with his mom has been when she’s so angry she’s practically got smoke coming out of her ears. Not to mention that she doesn’t approve of Eddie’s friendship with him based solely on the colour of his skin, which Eddie can agree is gross and outdated even if she  _ is _ his mother. She needs to get with the fucking times. 

Plus, he’s gotta admit, being a teenager means “getting along” with his mom is an impossible dream. He actually cracks a little smile at that, maybe not because it’s  _ funny _ but because it’s universal.  _ No one _ gets along with their parents (or grandparents, or guardians, or whatever) at fifteen. Fifteen is like the prime age for being an asshole and getting away with it. 

Not that he’s been particularly asshole-ish to his mom, who really  _ does _ just try to look out for his well-being the only way she knows how, and isn’t always successful, but he  _ does _ keep doing shit that he  _ knows _ drives her up the fucking wall. He still can’t tell if it’s specifically for the sake of teenage rebellion, like Richie keeps insisting (and  _ dressing like, _ thanks to Bev -- like if teenage rebellion were a person it would dress like Richie; Doc Martens and ugly leather jackets and black nail polish and hair that he refuses to tame and refuses to cut), or if he just likes the way freedom tastes. Likes the way doing what he  _ wants _ feels.

_ (Fuck, _ maybe that  _ is _ teenage rebellion and Richie is right like he always wants to be.)

He  _ laughs, _ and says, “Well,  _ no.” _

“Why not?”

Eddie regards him quietly for a very, very long time. Mike begins to shift uncomfortably and then he snaps out of the daze and asks, “Well, do you always get along with your grandpa?”

Mike’s little  _ ‘oh’ _ is internal. He nods a couple times before he laughs, too. “I guess not. Differing opinions on things, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees, “differing opinions.” It _is_ universal to not get along with your guardians all the time. He _knew_ it. Even Richie, who loves his parents so deeply sometimes Eddie feels it and starts thinking of them almost as his _own,_ gets into spats with them about things like chores and haircuts and broken glasses and his behaviour reports from school (never his grades -- those are always _infuriatingly_ good, like he doesn’t even have to _try)._ _‘Besides, we still get along sometimes even if I _**_am_**_ a terrible teenager who drives her up the wall,’_ he adds, thinking of watching his favourite movies with her on a quiet Sunday night, or how she brought him breakfast in bed for _days_ after the incident with the Criss gang, or whatever they’re calling them now, and how sometimes he offers to help paint her nails when he’s cooped up at home with nothing else to do and she gets all _soft_ and _happy_ about it and tells him over and over how much she loves and appreciates him, how she doesn’t know how she could ever live without him. 

That seems to satisfy Mike, who leans in and watches Eddie get back to work with Buttercup weaving between their legs and underneath the truck, talking about how he used to get in trouble for not helping in the slaughterhouse before his grandpa finally relented and let him  _ choose _ what to do to help out around the farm, which was, quote Mike,  _ “Literally _ anything else. I named them, y’know? All my life I’ve named them, and no one else uses their names, but I do. Gramps always tries to tell me not to get attached, but that’s hard -- I mean, I know them for their whole lives, the least I can do is give them names instead of numbers.”

“Mike,” Eddie says, stepping back to peel the gloves off and frowning at him. That doesn’t sit right with him. They all  _ know _ about the slaughterhouse, tucked back behind the barn, right next to where they shear the sheep, casual as can be, but they avoid it, for good reason. “That’s awful. Why’d he try to make you do it? You’d obviously hate that. You’re too… you’re just really  _ nice, _ you know, and you wouldn’t hurt a fly. Doesn’t he know that?” What’s worse, he thinks privately, is that Leroy Hanlon also seems too  _ good, _ the way Mike does, and Eddie can’t reconcile that with the person who kills sheep to sell to the butcher.

Mike smiles but it’s terribly sad, all the way into his eyes. “He hates it, too. He hates it, but it’s part of how we make money. Agriculture isn’t exactly lucrative anymore.”

Eddie’s about to say…  _ something. _ He doesn’t know what, exactly. Something about how he’s sorry Mr. Hanlon has to deal with that. How he’s sorry  _ Mike _ has to deal with that. How it’s sweet of Mike to name the sheep even though they’re all doomed to the same fate.

But Richie and Bev come tumbling back into the barn  _ loudly, _ Bev shoving Richie over face-first into the hay coating the dirt floor while Richie laughs raucously.

_ ‘Clubhouse?’ _ Bev asks, grinning while Richie gets back to his feet and starts brushing hay off his clothes. 

“When we’re done,” Eddie says, gesturing to the vehicle cracked open for him to operate on.

“You  _ are.” _

“One  _ sec.” _ Bev grins wider and Eddie grins back even as he’s crossing his arms and trying to act all huffy about it. “Mike, can you start her up, please?”

Mike gives a mock salute, something he  _ definitely _ picked up from Richie, and hops back into the driver’s seat. Buttercup naturally follows, settling herself on his lap with her little head barely peeking up over the steering wheel, and Richie says, none-too-quietly, “Aw, fuck, that’s adorable.”

The mongrel truck, somehow (even Eddie didn’t have much confidence in its ability to function) starts up on the first try, and Mike lets out a whoop and thrusts a fist into the air, nearly punching a hole through the roof before remembering he’s in a confined space. Richie’s arm drapes across Eddie’s shoulders to draw him in close while Eddie tries not to smile  _ too _ proudly, but it seems Richie’s got that covered for him, anyway. “Look at you go, Eddie Spaghetti. Master of all trades, or what?”

Eddie’s face gets hot and he  _ ignores that shit _ and instead says, “I hate that name. And you’ve got hay in your hair, genius.”

Richie shakes his head like a dog shaking off water but that doesn’t  _ help, _ because Eddie is pretty fucking sure he hasn’t brushed his hair in at least three days and it is a tangled fucking disaster. He rocks up on his toes and starts picking it out for him, a piece at a time, mumbling about  _ just trimming it, for fuck’s sake. _

“But, Eds, I’m trying to perfect the grunge look. I want  _ Nirvana _ to accept me into their ranks. I gotta blend in. Like a chameleon.”

Eddie can’t stop himself from laughing at that, even as he continues untangling Richie’s stupid hair and pulling pieces of stupid hay out of it to toss on the floor. “You have to have some kind of musical talent, first.”

“I can sing.”

“No, you can’t,” all three of them tell him at once. 

* * *


	27. Halloween, Sweet Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally all of the Losers, constantly, all the time: Bill Denbrough is perfect. He has no flaws. I spent my formative years in love with him.  
Me, a person with two working eyes: Bill is the biggest dipshit of you all and I’m going to make it my life’s work to ensure that you understand and acknowledge this, but love him nonetheless. 
> 
> CW for this chapter:  
-recreational drug use  
-still keeping up that internalized homophobia shit, thanks, Sonia  
-there's a part that's written from the perspective of someone who is high that sort of elaborates on what it feels like, if that needs a warning. idk.  
-Richie is so desperately in love oh my god someone help him
> 
> Shotgunning, babey!! I couldn't resist. This is 0% actual plot I just wanted the Losers to have a clubhouse sleepover and do drugs together. Enjoy the Tenderness while it lasts.
> 
> **P.S. I'll be forever in your debt if you draw Richie and Eddie's Shopping Cart Shenanigans. I want it immortalized in art but I lack the necessary skills.**

* * *

October/November 1992

* * *

"Hop in, Eds." Richie gestures to the empty cart and Eddie considers it for a moment, doing this terribly precious head-tilt before shrugging and clambering in. His mom would flip if she saw; would list off a dozen ways he could break his neck doing this as she dragged him away from the cart and pressed his face into her chest until he couldn't hardly breathe as she made him promise to never do anything so foolish again. Richie actually catches that tidbit, for once, instead of the deliberately blank silence of Eddie's usual output, only because he thinks it so merrily, so carefree, that what he's doing is stupid and probably dangerous and he doesn't feel like giving a crap about that.

Richie grins while he holds the cart steady for him and Eddie mirrors it. “Ready, Spaghetti?” 

“Richie, I _ swear--” _ Eddie starts to say, but Richie plants his feet on the bottom edge of the shopping cart and interrupts him with a boisterous, “Hi-yo, Silver, awaaay!” in a near-perfect imitation of the Lone Ranger, kicking off the floor and sending them flying down the aisle. 

“Richie, stop, _ stop, _ you’re passing the chips, we gotta--” Eddie’s so busy shrieking with laughter he can barely get the words out and the other customers they’re passing are shooting them dirty looks. 

Richie drops one foot back down and they skid to a rough stop. “Apologies, my liege. Which chips would you like for your not-Halloween, not-sweet sixteen party?” He gestures broadly to the many shelves of chips and junk food around them. “The store is your oyster.”

“You’re a complete idiot.”

“Thanks, Eddie my love. Means a lot.” Richie winks at him and instead of getting indignant, like he usually does whenever Richie uses any kind of nickname or pet name (in _ jest, _ always, because if he meant it and Eddie _ knew _ he meant it he’d-- well, he’d probably drop dead on the spot), Eddie laughs more and shoves lightly at his chest, shuffling around in the cart to reach out to the shelves.

They get a little bit of everyone’s favourites, even though there’s no way the Losers will be able to eat all of that food in one night, and on top of even that, they load the cart up around Eddie with gummy candies, pop-rocks, chocolate bars, and bags upon bags of Halloween candy, packaged up all dainty in those tiny fun-size wrappers in portions that wouldn’t fill up a fucking ant, but who fucking _ cares, _ the shit is on sale, anyway.

“Which diabetes-inducing drinks shall we purchase on this fine Hallows Eve?” he asks, sailing down another aisle towards where cases and cases of pop are stacked against the back wall. 

Eddie smiles up at him in that way that makes his heart do funny things. Giggles and when he does, his nose gets all scrunched up and his tongue pokes out just the faintest bit between his teeth and tiny dimples pop out on his cheeks that have carried over some baby fat from childhood and don't seem to plan on letting it go any time soon. “You’re so ridiculous. Get cream soda.”

“As you wish.” Richie bows theatrically, grabs a case of cream soda, and pretends to drop it right on top of him while Eddie squeals and tries to push him away. 

“You’re gonna break my fucking ribs, dipshit!” 

“Well, you’re in my way!”

“You _ asked _ me to sit in here!”

He helps Eddie out of the cart so they can load it up with enough pop to keep an entire army hydrated. The other Losers start dictating what to purchase at some point, and then they end up with a few boxes of cookies and more fucking chips before Richie informs them that he isn’t made of fucking money, contrary to popular belief, and could they stop acting like they were going to starve to death spending one night in the clubhouse? 

Richie hops into the cart in Eddie’s place, once they’ve decided that’s enough and _ Richie _ has decided he would like to _ not _ go broke. “To the checkouts, if you please’em,” he demands, kicking back with his hands behind his head, while Eddie rolls his eyes and smiles anyway. He’s in a really fucking good mood today. He’s fantastic at hiding his thoughts and feelings from the rest of them, but today he’s expressing just enough for Richie to feel _ bubbly _ just being around him. 

Eddie starts pushing him back towards the front of the store and immediately says, “Jesus _ Christ, _ you’re fucking heavy. Do you eat _ cement _ or something?”

“Hey, first of all, fuck _ you, _ I am like the skinniest, methiest-looking bitch in Derry! Second, _ I’m _ not heavy, all this goddamn pop is, because _ some _ losers couldn’t make a choice between Seven-Up and Sprite!”

_ ‘We can hear you,’ _ Stan informs them, and it’s all-too-easy to picture the way he’s probably rolling his eyes. 

_ ‘It’s not like it’s a secret that Richie looks like he does meth,’ _ Bill says. He’s already driving his dad’s car over to meet them, having taken a grand total of thirty-one seconds to get permission to borrow it (they’re all pretty sure Mr. Denbrough didn’t even register the question, just kind of grunted in acknowledgement, but that was good enough for them). 

Also, that was one-hundred percent _ not _ Stan’s point, and Richie bursts out laughing in the middle of the checkout line for no apparent reason, which earns them a number of odd looks. _ ‘Glad to hear my methy beanstalk-ness is always at the forefront of your mind, Big Bill. Could it be that you’re _ ** _jealous?’_ ** And Bill is long past being bitter about half of their friends outgrowing him so fast, but fuck if Richie doesn’t love to make fun of him, their perfect fearless leader who’s got such boundless charisma that no one ever notices how dumb he can be sometimes (isn’t that true of most of them, though? If Stan’s harsh judgments of their choices are anything to go by, they’re all -- _ all of them _ \-- dumbasses who are sometimes good at hiding it). 

Now Eddie’s having a good chuck about it, too, trying to hide it behind his hand because people are already looking at them funny, and that just makes _ pride _ well up inside of Richie, sudden and _ potent. _

He doesn’t let Eddie pay for any of the groceries no matter how much he insists, both of them using the argument that this party is for Eddie. It doesn’t matter, because Richie is faster to shove a handful of money at the cashier and say, “Keep the change,” as he grabs the cart he was forced to vacate so they could unload everything, now filled up with the absolute _ garbage _ food once again, and takes off out of the store. Eddie’s protests follow him all the way to the door.

Bill is just pulling into the parking lot as Eddie comes flying out of the A&P behind him, still spitting profanity. _ ‘Oh Jesus Christ, what the fresh fuck are you wearing?’ _ Bill demands as soon as he catches sight of them, and Richie’s just tickled to see Eddie’s eyebrows furrow as he glances down at his own baggy knit sweater and jeans, the idea that Bill’s making fun of _ him _ passing, fleeting, through his poor little head. But then Bill continues with, _ ‘Did you turn a bowling alley carpet into a shirt? Who _ ** _designed _ ** _ that? It’s an affront to God,’ _ and Eddie goes, “Oh,” out loud.

“Told you it was terrible.”

“And your opinion is the only one that matters, I assure you.” Richie’s already flipping Bill off before he’s come to a complete stop in front of them. He uses his other hand to unzip his jacket the rest of the way and leave the hideous button-up on full display.

“I thought Bev was supposed to fix that shit,” Bill says, rolling down the passenger side window. “And you better cut that out right now if you don’t want me to leave you here to drag all that crap across town on your own.”

Richie, because he really can’t stop himself from making terrible decisions, starts licking his own middle finger in what he’s sure is an obscene gesture on top of an already obscene gesture, and the gear shift clicks back into drive as Bill’s foot lifts off the brake. “Wait no I’m kidding I’m sorry!” he yelps before Bill can drive away. 

“Gross, Richie,” Eddie says, but Richie practically lives in his head (or, at least the parts he doesn’t keep closed off from everyone else) so he knows he isn’t even grossed out in the slightest, just amused at his antics, and it puts a little spring in his step as they load all their shitty party food into the trunk of the Mercedes.

“Eddie gets shotgun. Don’t even bother.”

“Nice to see speech therapy has been working out so you can insult me out loud instead of doing it in your head all the time.”

“Nice to see you won’t stop being fucking insufferable even if I’m insulting you out loud,” Bill counters without hesitation, earning himself a hearty laugh from Eddie.

“Yowza!” Richie yells, because _ damn, _ Bill rarely speaks aloud but when he does he certainly doesn’t waste the opportunity to claim some absolute zingers. “Big Bill gets off a good one! Yowza yowza _ yowza!” _ He’s just rolling his sleeve up to blow against his arm and make what _ The Cosby Show _ taught him in his formative years is called a “zrbtt”, one of his specialties, but Bill grabs his wrist to stop him, a fond smile fighting to surface.

“Get in the car, Trashmouth.”

Richie snaps to attention, back ramrod straight, hand coming up in a stiff salute. “Aye aye, captain!” He folds himself into the backseat, his stupid long legs taking up too much space so that he just ends up with his knees jammed into the back of the passenger seat. Which is hardly fair, considering Eddie gets to sit up there, with all the leg room, and he doesn’t even _ need _ it, and Bill’s just doing this to be a jackass because Bill is handsome and magnetic and easy to get along with and he’s also a huge jackass. 

(They’re all jackasses. That’s why they’re friends, obviously.)

“Hey, Eds, scoot your seat forward. You’re teeny-tiny -- you don’t need all that damn space up there.”

“Richie, say that again and I’m banning you from my not-birthday party.”

“Listen, you know it’s true, please make space for me and my sexy long legs, I feel like I’m being put through a compactor back here.”

There’s a click and Eddie’s seat slides forward a few inches and Richie breathes a sigh of relief now that his knees aren’t jabbing into his ribcage.

The plan, as far as Bill has devised, is to meet Mike over by their usual entrance to the Barrens so they can haul all their crap to the clubhouse, go home to get ready, and meet back up by seven.

Hauling their crap to the clubhouse is, in Richie’s professional opinion, the worst bullshit idea they’ve ever fucking had, and _ yes, _ that’s counting gallivanting around the decrepit Well House and following a child-eating clown into its creepy sewer lair. He’s sweaty and disgusting and desperate for a shower by the time they’re done, and Bill is nice enough to offer to drop him off at his house as if he’s doing him a favour and he isn’t going to pass Richie’s place on his way home regardless.

Kids -- the younger kids, the ones whose bedtime is eight o’clock and who probably still suck their thumbs -- are already traversing the streets with parents in tow, bags and buckets of candy swinging at their sides, and Bill crawls through the suburbs as little werewolves and princesses dart back and forth in front of them. Richie digs a cigarette out of the pack stowed in his pocket and Bill immediately says, _ ‘If you think you’re going to stink up my dad’s car--’ _

“Relax, _ senhorr, _ I am rolling dee weendow down,” he interrupts as he flicks the lighter a few times. It’s running out of juice.

“Fuck you, Pancho,” says Bill, and he’s grinning stupidly in a way that reminds Richie of when they were twelve years old and careless, and everything was always a big joke, and all was right in the world. When they could play _ Cowboys and Indians _ on the banks of the Kenduskeag; count tickets with ice cream-sticky fingers during Canal Days and force Eddie onto rides that he insisted scared him too much, but then he’d laugh the whole time until Richie was dizzy with it; dig up entire sections of Richie’s backyard pretending to be archaeologists and get yelled at for it at the end of the day, when there was little left besides churned earth and overturned grass and they didn’t have any dinosaur bones to show for it like they’d hoped. 

When everything was right in the world, and there were no dead brothers, no residual nightmares from the worst-and-best summer of their lives, no unexplainable powers and no weird God-Turtles (& co.)

It strikes hard, the longing for times long past, and the problem isn’t that he’s particularly dissatisfied with the current state of things, but that he wishes there were some things they could have undone. But it had to happen the way it did, didn’t it? For Bill to drag them all down there and for them to end up like _ this. _ A deviance in a world that doesn’t tolerate that kind of thing (and Richie Tozier knows _ all about _ that). 

And strangely enough, he wouldn’t trade it for the world. 

The Losers, his _ friends, _ the best friends in probably the whole damn universe, have built their homes in his heart and they’re there to stay, psychic connection and weird sewer-related trauma and all. 

“I love you, Big Bill.” He blows a cloud of smoke out the window and sighs. “I know I don’t tell you that often enough. You’re like a brother to me. Probably the best damn brother I could have asked for, even if you are an annoying douche sometimes.”

Bill laughs at that and it’s so bright and so tender and Richie’s _ glad _ everything turned out the way it did, strange as it is, because he’s _ happy _ to have this. The connection with all of them. They’re stuck together, through thick and thin. In sickness and in health. Whatever it is people say. “I know,” Bill tells him, reaching over to give his shoulder a squeeze, eyes on the road and all those kids on sugar highs who keep running ahead of their parents into traffic. “You don’t have to tell me. You’re good at showing it.”

“Really? Do my colourful insults sound like love confessions? Does me making fun of your stutter help you get your rocks off? ‘Cause, like, I’m glad to be of assistance, or whatever--”

“Richie.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t fucking ruin it.”

“Gotcha.” Richie flicks ash out the window and then they’re pulling into his driveway. “You got a costume ready to go there, ol’ chap?”

“Yeah, I was thinking I’d dress as a clown for Halloween. Yuh-you know, for old times’ sake.” He fixes Richie with a viciously cheeky grin and adds, “You?”

“Oh, sexy cheerleader, for sure. You’ll be able to see my whole ass. Bring a camera. Make some memories.”

Richie does not, in fact, have a sexy cheerleader costume, mostly because he couldn’t rope Stan into his scheme and if Stanny isn’t participating then what is the fucking point? 

What he does have is a blue tweed suit, a bowtie, and some hair gel, plus (naturally) the appropriate tape to accompany the attire, and a boombox. His backpack had been dumped on his desk -- notebooks bent to shit and pencils scattered everywhere -- and stuffed with his overnight crap. He admires himself in the mirror for a few minutes, nodding, and when he rushes down the stairs his mom calls him “adorable” about three dozen times and “handsome” about three dozen more, and insists on taking his picture. _ Lots _ of pictures. She could dedicate an entire photo album to that. He’s pretty sure she ran out of film like twenty pictures ago but he lets her do her thing while he scarfs down a bowl of cold leftover spaghetti as a quick dinner. 

“Well, this has been fun.” He ducks under her hands reaching out to fix his hair for him as he deposits his empty bowl in the sink and she pouts dramatically about it. “But I gotta go meet up with _ my _ Spaghetti so we can make it to Bill’s at a reasonable time.”

(No, none of their parents know about the hole in the ground they spend half their lives in, because _ of course _ they don’t, because the Losers aren’t fuckin’ _ looneytunes. _ They’d probably get in so much goddamn trouble.)

“Okay.” Maggie snaps another picture and Richie is _ positive _ she’s out of film and just living in the moment. “I wish you could dress like this all the time. You’re so handsome.”

“I am _ so _ incredibly uncomfortable, mom. This jacket is itchy as fuck. These pants are too tight in the crotch. I would rather chop off my left testicle than wear this all the time.”

_ “Richie.” _

“I’m just being honest!” He throws his hands up in mock surrender. “I really gotta go, though. Eds is waiting for me.”

“Alright, fine,” she relents. He’s already got his backpack slung over his shoulder and the boombox in one hand, pulling open the front door with the other. “Have fun! Be safe. Use protection.”

Richie pauses on the front stoop and pokes his head back into the foyer. “I am going to pretend you didn’t just say that to me.”

“Just in case! I don’t know if there will be girls there or not; you don’t tell me these things!”

Richie shuts the door quickly, but not quickly enough to avoid hearing his mother shout, “I’m too young to be a grandmother, Richard!”

Sure enough, Eddie is waiting by the corner of Kansas and Astoria, and he lights up when he spots Richie hurrying across someone’s front lawn towards him. “Lion-O! My old friend!” Richie cries delightedly, sweeping him up in a hug like they weren’t just together less than two hours ago. “You look adorable!” 

(He does, he really fucking does, with the ridiculous blue Lion-O getup over a pair of leggings that Richie doesn’t even have to ask to know are fleece-lined, because _ it’s autumn, you know, and the temperature is supposed to take a nosedive tonight, _ and a turtleneck just a few shades lighter. And his hair isn’t neatly combed back anymore but is wild and fluffy, like a mane, and Richie’s probably going to die tonight, and he’d be totally fine with that.)

Eddie goes red under the little bit of face paint he used to give himself more cat-like features. “_ You _ look _ weird.” _

“Really? Your mom just told me I look _ sexy. _ I think I trust her judgment more.”

“I didn’t say it was _ bad _ weird!”

Richie’s still got an arm around Eddie as they cross the street to where a shoddy bit of fencing separates them from the Barrens. This is one of the only places it’s still standing, and in Richie’s entire life he’s never seen anyone by to fix the rest. Their quickest path to the clubhouse is a few metres further down, where the ground slopes gently into the forest below, thick foliage hiding them from view as soon as they step off the shoulder. “Ah, so you also think I’m sexy. Good to know. Let me guess, it’s the glasses that do it for you.”

Eddie’s still cherry-red but he’s got his arm around Richie’s waist and he’s not pulling away, so he can’t be _ too _ embarrassed. He does pinch Richie’s side, though. “Shut the fuck up, dude. That’s literally the _ one thing _ you didn’t change.”

“Not true! I’m still wearing my favourite shoes,” Richie points out, kicking his foot up higher on his next step to show Eddie his worn converse. 

“Oh, Buddy Holly, I should have guessed,” Mike says as they’re descending the ladder into the clubhouse. He drops the couch, which he’s maneuvering into a better position so they can set up a few foam camping mats on the floor, courtesy of Bill (because frankly they’re not fitting six people on just the hammock and an old sofa), to hug both of them in turn. 

“Old McDonald, _ I _ should have guessed,” Richie counters playfully, clasping Mike’s hand between both of his own and shaking as he says, as solemnly as he can manage, “E-I-E-I-O.”

Eddie rolls his eyes so hard they look ready to pop out of his head, matching Stan’s expression perfectly. He pulls Richie’s bag off his shoulder to dig the sleeping bag out of it, abandoning Richie and his frankly hilarious antics to stretch it across the hammock so they don’t freeze to death in their sleep, which for some reason is a very real concern for him even though it isn’t even going to be below freezing tonight at all, according to the weather network Richie only ever half-listens to. 

“Anyway, what’s our Halloween Horror Extravaganza selection for the night?” Richie asks as he hops in to help Mike finish moving the couch against the wall. 

_ ‘I was thinking _ ** _Barney & Friends,_ ** _ if that works for you,’ _ Bill says. He’s already gotten into the cases of pop and has made some kind of unholy cocktail in a red solo cup that looks less like a beverage and more like reddish-brown sludge. Richie knows he can one-up that, and he’s got just the ingredients in his backpack for it.

“Yeah, dude, that thing never stops smiling. It gives me the heebie-jeebies. That should be top of the list.”

Ben tosses a pack of gummy worms his way as he tips into the hammock and Richie winks at him, tearing it open to shove a handful in his mouth. _ ‘Thanks, Haystack. Such a gentleman.’ _

He knows there won’t be a fight with Eddie about this for once, because they’ve already agreed to share it, even though, as Eddie lovingly puts it, _ ‘Your stupid noodle limbs are too long to even fit in there so I don’t know why you bother.’ _

“Oh, right!” He digs the tape out of his pocket and chucks it across the clubhouse to Eddie, who only gets a split-second forewarning but catches it easily anyway. “Would you do the honours?”

_ “‘Buddy Holly: Greatest Hits.’ _Really?”

Richie nods. “Really really.”

He reaches into his pocket again, but this time instead of cassettes or cigarettes, he produces a bag with a couple of joints in it, once again courtesy of good old Jonesy, who Richie tolerates well enough but only because he’s one of the only dealers in Derry that he knows about. He lights one while Ben sets up _ Halloween _ for their viewing pleasure. Eddie’s probably going to stand over him with his hands on his hips once he notices and get all huffy, call him a pothead and say, _ “Why do you even do stuff like that? All it’s going to do is get you in trouble once you get caught.” _

And Richie will offer him some and Eddie will remind him all about his fake asthma and the inhaler in his bag, and that’s fine. Eddie can have his opinions, ‘cause sometimes Richie’s head is kind of too loud, and a lot of the time he can’t mellow himself out enough to behave like a normal person, so once in a while he’ll let some of the Devil’s Lettuce do the job for him. Make him chill out and act like a functional member of society and not a kid on an eternal sugar high. 

Even though what he’s about to do is completely counterintuitive, he thinks as he takes a few quick puffs and stands to grab a cup from the stack on the makeshift table at the back of the clubhouse, cramming the gummy worms in his pocket for safekeeping. He takes the Red Bull and the Surge from his bag and mixes them in it, the concoction fizzing and hissing as it settles, joint smoking where it’s still pinched between his index and middle fingers.

“Rich, what in the actual hell are you doing?” Eddie asks, horror evident, in the exact same moment Stan, who is helping himself to a bag of plain potato chips and a can of Sprite right next to him, like the boring motherfucker he is, says, “Oh my God, just do cocaine. It would be so much easier.”

“Why not both?” Richie swirls the mixture around for a second, grinning at Stan, looking unimpressed as ever as he sips his boring-ass Sprite. He raises his cup to offer a toast, and Stan indulges him. “Bottoms up!” He tips his head back and starts chugging the energy drink monstrosity, and immediately spits about half of it back out. It splashes into the plastic cup and some of it splatters on the floor. _ “Fuck, _ what the _ fuck, _ that’s _ awful!” _ he cries. It tastes how he’d expect battery acid to taste if his nostrils were stuffed with horse shit, which he half-anticipated because neither of these drinks are particularly renowned for their delicious flavour all on their own, but he didn’t think mixing them would create a whole new flavour that he is right now deciding to name Satan’s Very Own Fizzy Piss. 

Bill, of course, is the one to launch himself around the beam supporting the hammock and say, _ ‘Wait, let me try!’ _

And Mike, of course, is the one to take the cup before he’s even had a chance to taste it properly and say, “Okay, that’s enough.”

“Seriously, you guys, that’s, like, a heart attack waiting to happen. Are you crazy? Because I don’t want to have to drag your dead body out of the Barrens and to the hospital, especially not on Halloween. Do you have any clue how fucking _ full _ the emergency room gets on Halloween?” Eddie starts going off on a whole tangent, arms flailing, and Richie puts the joint to his lips again and just watches it happen, nodding along, while Mike goes outside to dump his Piss Drink in the grass, which it will probably kill, much like Eddie is convinced it will do to anyone who drinks it.

“You really think _ you’re _ going to be the one dragging my corpse through the woods, Eds? When our Mike, Mr. Micycle Hanlon _ himself, _ is right here with us, fully capable of bench-pressing me at any given time? I’m honoured you want to be my knight in shining armour so bad, though. Glad you care so much for my well-being. Would you like to try some weed and maybe calm down?” he asks, teasing, a toothy grin stretching across his face while Eddie’s aggressive gesticulating dies out and he trails off, half-glaring at Richie, cheeks tinged pink.

“Yes.”

_ “Yes?” _

"Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Wowza, Spaghetti. What would Mrs. K say? Her pretty little rebel son, out doing pretty rebel boy things, like smoking real drugs. And watching slasher movies. And sleeping in a hole in the ground with poor structural integrity.”

“I resent that,” Ben says from the couch, where he is very sensibly minding his own business. 

“Sorry, Benny, I’m wrong. You are a world-class architect at the tender age of sixteen. How could I have forgotten?” He crosses the clubhouse in a few quick strides and passes Eddie the joint. 

Around them, the rest of the set-up begins. Blankets and pillows freed from bags, chips and candy brought over to where they’re congregating on the uncomfortable foam mats covering the floor, shoes kicked off and tossed by the ladder. They turn off a few of the flashlights set up around the room, plunging the corners into darkness. Bill retrieves the Polaroid camera from its home on the bookshelf. Richie’s music is flowing quietly from where the boombox is tucked under the ladder and Ben starts the movie, which is significantly less scary with _ Blue Days, Black Nights _ playing in the background, and when Eddie finally sucks back some pot-smoke and immediately starts coughing, he’s right there to thump him a few times on the back like that’ll help clear his airway. 

“There ya go, Eds. That wasn’t so bad.”

“Why do you_ do _ this to yourself?” Eddie asks, then tacks on, “And don’t call me that. It’s not my name.”

**

Inhaling the smoke directly like this still hurts his throat and leaves him hacking and wheezing, but he goes back for more anyway, and deals with the ensuing coughing fit. And then more, and his limbs feel… staticky. A good kind of staticky. Richie asks him how he’s doing at some point and while he’s thinking of how to answer, it clicks that he’s starting to get _ high. _ Like, _ properly. _ Like, for the first time _ ever _\-- last time they did this didn’t count because Eddie was too worried about having an asthma attack to try it again. 

His mom would be _ so pissed _ but he feels so giddy he can’t bring himself to care. He laughs and it’s like _ bubbles. _ Doesn’t even answer Richie’s question, but apparently his uncontrollable laughter, which he tries, unsuccessfully, to hide behind his hands is answer enough. ‘Cause then Richie’s laughing, too, not as untamed, but _ big _ and giddy like Eddie’s.

“You want any more?”

Eddie starts to nod, remembers that he keeps almost coughing up a lung when he tries to smoke, and shakes his head. “It’s bothering my throat.” He doesn’t mean to sound so dejected but he isn’t exactly in full control of his faculties at the moment, and he feels _ fantastic _ and would love to feel _ more _ fantastic but he also doesn’t want to sound like a chainsmoker when he has to face his mother in the morning.

“Oh,” Richie says. Bill hands the joint back to him and starts blowing smoke rings to show off, which, if Eddie was more alert, he would notice Stan actively trying not to be impressed by. Richie considers it for a moment, then looks back up at Eddie. “Can I try something? That might help?”

“Mm-hm.” He presses his lips together and nods enthusiastically, but at the same time he’s pretty sure in slow-motion, eyes wide as he stares up at Richie pressing the joint between his lips and breathing in.

_ ‘Open your mouth.’ _

Eddie doesn’t (can’t, really) hide his confusion as Richie takes his chin between his fingers to hold him in place as he leans in and--

_ Oh, _ okay, Eddie’s heart does a little jig in his chest and for a fraction of a second he expects Richie to kiss him, and _ oh fuck oh fuck _ he wouldn’t have a problem with that at all, no sir, oh fuck, is anyone hearing this? Is his brain closed? No one is giving any indication they can hear Eddie’s internal freakout but he is also, hm… very, very high, or maybe just _ slightly _ high and unaccustomed to it.

But Richie does not, in fact, kiss him, and leaves a bare centimetre of space between their mouths as he urges him to, _ ‘Breathe in,’ _ so he does that, eagerly and obediently, while Richie blows smoke into his open mouth. And that’s… wow, yeah, Eddie’s short-circuiting, it would seem. That’s a lot. Richie is _ very _ close and Eddie has a _ lot _ of conflicting feelings about him, about _ this, _ yet in the moment he is _ positive _ he’d like nothing more than to close that gap, that barely-there space between their lips, and he’s almost uninhibited enough to just _ do it. _ His whole body has gone warm, in a red sort of way. Like trickles of lava down his sides and over his hands, planted on the floor behind him so he doesn’t overbalance. It seeps into his ribcage and fills up his abdomen and it’s not too much, but it’s… a _ lot. _

And he’s still blinking dumbly when Richie sits back, abruptly leaving his personal space, and when he exhales it doesn’t cause him to start coughing, but smoke -- the smoke that was in Richie’s mouth and then _ his _ lungs, holy fuck, what -- spills over his lips. “Better?” Richie asks. Eddie nods, eye still huge.

He wants to ask him to do it again but he’s not sure he won’t make a fucking fool of himself by caving and kissing Richie outright if he does that a second time.

Except that Richie _ asks _ to do it again, and he says _ yes, _ and he doesn’t kiss him but he _ does _ spend… well, he’s having a little trouble with time right now, but he’s pretty sure he spends a few decades thinking about how Richie’s tongue would feel in his mouth, which, y’know, if he didn’t already suspect he might be gay, he would probably be tipped off by that.

And he thinks he’s just hyper aware of it because of his current state, but Richie is being, like, extra-super affectionate, it seems like. Eddie’s a giggling mess on the clubhouse floor, and Richie sits cross-legged and lets Eddie put his head on his lap and just stare at him while the rest of the Losers ignore whatever movie they’re watching and try to play _ Truth or Dare _(he’s not sure if it’s successful or not because he’s pretty far gone by now). Richie’s fingers play with his hair and occasionally he’ll glance down at Eddie and smile in a way that makes him all warm and gooey again. The lava in his body still oozes through his veins but he’s starting to think it’s more like warm honey. He reaches up to squish Richie’s cheeks between his hands, even though his arms are like lead weights, just to get his attention so he’ll look at him like that again. It works. Another series of giggles make his whole body shake. 

Someone flips the _ Buddy Holly _ tape again. How many times have they listened to it? There’s the faint sound of screaming from the television that’s playing _ I Was a Teenage Werewolf, _ and Richie’s hands are in his hair again while he leans in close to Bill and comes away laughing about something.

When Eddie complains that he’s cold, half in words and half in thoughts, Richie’s already reaching for the nearest blanket and draping it over him, and when he starts to feel really, _ really _ fucking hungry Richie helps him sit up, and he practically inhales a handful of fun-size chocolate bars and the rest of a bag of gummy worms while Richie lets him lean on him. It feels less like “lets him” and more like “wants him to”, which he’ll figure out once he’s sobered up is just wishful thinking, the same way expecting Richie to kiss him earlier had been, but that’s just fine. That’s fine. At least he has this, now, where Richie cracks open a can of cream soda and presses it into his hands and Eddie is smiling so hard his face hurts (he hasn’t been able to stop smiling for like… however long he’s been like this), slurring through a, “Thanks, Richie,” while Richie’s arm settles over his shoulders again. 

And then it’s like he blinks and Richie is helping him balance while they work to get his dumb _ Thundercats _ costume off. He leaves the leggings because he’s certain he _ will _ fall over if he tries to take them off, and exchanges his turtleneck for a hoodie he’s… pretty fuckin’ sure is Richie’s, even though he brought his _ own _ overnight bag with his _ own _ pyjamas. Not like he’s going to fucking complain about that, if Richie wants to hand Eddie his damn sweater to wear. It’s fugly, retina-searing orange, and it smells nice, and one of those things is more important to him but he doesn’t have the capacity to pick that apart.

He does something closer to _ toppling _ into the hammock than climbing into it, but he gets there, and rolls onto his side while Richie slips in behind him and folds the sleeping bag over them. He’s still got that pleasant _ buzz _ in his limbs. The television drones softly somewhere in the room and whoever is still awake has the courtesy to lower their voices and turn off the boombox as a few flashlights and battery-operated lanterns go out. The hammock sways as Richie struggles with the zipper on the sleeping bag and Eddie tries to tell him to leave it but Richie laughs at him, the feeling of it reverberating through both of them. “Like you’re not gonna wake up in the middle of the night and bitch about being cold?”

“...’Kay. Continue.”

It’s a tight fit, once it’s zipped closed, and if they weren’t both incredibly twig-like creatures there probably wouldn’t be room to breathe. And if they weren’t so comfortable with each other, it would probably feel awkward, but even taking into account Eddie’s pretty-much-undeniable, big fat _ stupid _ crush on Richie, it _ isn’t, _ because they’ve known each other since they were, like, seven years old and idiots. And now they’re sixteen (ish -- give it three days) and still idiots, who have seen each other naked on several occasions and fought a clown from hell together and can read each other’s minds and, like, earlier Richie breathed dope-smoke from his own mouth into _ Eddie’s _ mouth, and while he’s aware it didn’t really _ mean _ anything, he doesn’t think he’s ever going to stop thinking about it. But that’s the _ thing, _ is that Richie can just _ do _ stuff like that and it doesn’t have to mean anything, because they’re… they’re a package deal. Things like that are _ fine, _ ‘cause they’re… his thoughts are all foggy and slow from the pot, but they’re like, a combo. They’re RichieandEddie. Can’t have one without the other. Nothing can break them apart. Anything goes. 

(Well, almost anything. Eddie’s sure he’s thought of a few things that would cross boundaries even in a friendship with virtually none.)

His _ point, _ though -- his point is that they _ are. _ Comfortable. With each other. In ways that would make his mom have a fucking conniption, likely. So when Richie’s arms wrap around his waist and he pulls Eddie back, closer to him, and Eddie can feel his warm breath on his neck, well. That’s just fine. That’s more than fine. He finds himself wishing he could sleep like this _ every _ night, as the rise and fall of Richie’s chest where it’s pressed against his back lulls him to sleep.

As predicted by several other members of the Losers club (Richie, Bill, and Stan took bets on it, because they’re morons), Eddie _ is _ sick on his birthday. His mother takes his temperature and tuts and says, “I _ told _ you that you shouldn’t have gone out on Halloween. You get sick too easily. All that excitement isn’t good for you.” But she hadn’t exactly been able to stop him, even if she had argued with him the whole way out the door, about bringing his coat and taking his pills on time and coming straight home at the first sign of trouble, because _ those delinquent teenagers can’t be trusted with anything. _ Yeah, if only she had any clue the kind of “delinquent teenager” shit he got up to in her absence. (Oh, and then he feels just downright _ awful _ for thinking that, but isn’t that what his teen years are _ supposed _ to be about? Sneaking booze from Richie’s parents and gagging at the taste, trying the drugs he swore up and down he’d never, ever touch, _ no way, mom, I’d never do something that stupid. _ Taking risks and staying out too late and jumping into the stagnant quarry water in his underwear and listening to rock ‘n roll that the grown ups are convinced is the Devil’s music? Why _ shouldn’t _ he be allowed to do those things while he has a chance?)

_ ‘It’s a good fuckin’ thing we had a party on Saturday,’ _ he informs them as he tries to drag himself out of bed to use the washroom, head throbbing, ears ringing, skin itching terribly. _ ‘I think I have the goddamn plague.’ _

_ ‘A-ha! Cursed! I told you! That’s, what, four years in a row? I think Pennywise honest-to-God put a real, actual curse on you.’ _

_ ‘I’m pretty sure It put a curse on the whole town,’ _ Ben points out mildly, and Eddie downs a bunch of painkillers on his way back to his room and sleeps the rest of the day away.

* * *


	28. The clash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Kaspbraks butt heads. That's nothing new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW:  
-more ice baths  
-more internalized homophobia  
-homophobia and implied racism/anti-semitism  
-Sonia Kaspbrak is fucking creepy  
-descriptions of panic attacks  
-MANIPULATION

* * *

December 1992

* * *

Eddie takes a few deep breaths before flushing the toilet, watching the cocktail of pills disappear into the sewers far below Derry. He flips the bird, a little bit for the useless fucking placebos and a little bit for the clown fucker that terrorized him for an entire summer from down in those very sewers (he still has nightmares about that fucking thing).

His mom doesn’t pay as much attention when he’s taking the pills anymore. He’s beginning to think he’s earned her trust again. She stopped holding his jaw shut until he swallowed them a long time ago, and stopped making him open his mouth so she could check a while after that.

Just in case, he’s been working on hiding them under his tongue. At least when he’s out of the house he can toss them down the nearest grate or dump them in a sink, but sometimes when he stands in the kitchen with a glass of water in one hand and a rainbow of sugar pills in the other he’s got the fear of his mom _ checking _ nagging at him. He can talk with them stashed under his tongue now, like nothing is happening, so that she doesn’t get suspicious if he takes his medication and immediately has to rush off to the washroom.

She hasn’t caught on yet, and it’s been almost a month.

Nothing has happened. That’s what Eddie had hoped for and dreaded. He hasn’t swallowed a single pill in almost a month and _ nothing has changed. _ Shouldn’t he be getting sick? Having frequent asthma attacks? Breaking out in hives? Fainting? _ Something? _

Maybe Ben knows something about how long it takes to flush certain medications out of your system. He spends enough time at the library to be a walking encyclopedia; surely he’d have the info Eddie wants. It’s just that he isn’t sure he should tell any of the Losers yet. In case he’s wrong (he _ isn’t). _ They all cheer every time he tosses them instead of taking them anyway, but what happens when they get excited that he’s really been in “perfect” health this whole time and then things take a turn for the worse? 

Best not to get their hopes up. 

He’ll give it another month.

  
  


“I have a very exclusive offer for you, Mr. Kaspbrak,” Richie says as he passes him his water bottle during track practice. It’s Thursday and the whole track team is crammed into the gym, running laps and practicing high jump. 

Eddie hums and wipes at the sweat on his forehead as he takes a swig of water. _ Fuck, _ he’s worn out. He’s trying to beat his record before they break for the holidays, even though Coach Harris keeps telling him there’s no need because his record _ is _ the record, and it’s not like he’ll be surpassing anyone. But he _ wants _ to. Wants to know he can do it. Even if it leaves him a sweat-soaked, red-faced mess by the end of practice. “Oh, yeah? And what’s that, Mr. Tozier?”

“Chrismukkah with the Toziers. My mom’s idea. She said I should ‘invite a friend’, but she also specifically said, and I quote, ‘I think Eddie would like that, don’t you think? He can sleep over, and maybe so can his mom, and then Richie can make sw--’”

“No,_ nope, _ stop. _ Not _ funny. I thought you were being serious for a second, asshole!” And really, Eddie’s heart had swelled right up at the idea of spending any amount of time during winter break with Richie’s family. Hannah will be home, which is simultaneously bad and good, because she’s rude to all of Richie’s friends, including him, but it also takes some of the heat off Eddie when Richie is so busy bothering the hell out of _ her _ instead.

(Maybe that’s… _ also _ bad.)

“Way to get me all excited for nothing.”

Richie’s eyebrows shoot up towards his hairline. “Woah, damn, Eds, that’s quite forward, I mean I’m _ flattered _ but--”

_ “Ugh! _ Richie!” Eddie shoves the water bottle back at his chest and Richie laughs, in little static bursts all through his skin. It makes his own chest stir with mirth but he fights it down.

“No, no.” Richie wipes at his eyes with his thumbs, a smirk still playing at his lips, shoulders still jumping with the aftermath of his laughter. “Seriously. My mom actually invited you to Chrismukkah, and I am passing it on. I am but a lowly messenger. I was only kidding about the part where I was gonna fuck your mom.”

It takes a second to properly process that information, because he actually let himself be disappointed for a second there. “Wait, for real?”

“Kaspbrak!” Coach Harris is hollering from across the gym, whistle wobbling where it’s still hanging from his mouth (it gives his voice a strange oscillating quality on every aspiration). “What’s the hold up?”

And, fuck, Eddie’s kind of reeling from the excitement at the prospect of waking up Christmas morning and actually being fucking _ happy _ about it, and then he’s trying to get a handle on the guilt that always comes hand-in-hand with any ungrateful thoughts about his mother. “I--” Fuck it all, he wants to agree _ so bad _ but what kind of awful child would he be if he did that? Leaving his mother alone on Christmas morning is like the _ ultimate _ dick move.

But she also makes _ real _ food on Christmas, like _ real _ roast beef and mashed potatoes and stuffing, not the over-processed _ crap _ that comes in TV dinners, and then tells him all about how terrible it is for him that he can’t have most of it because of _ this allergy _ or _ that intolerance. _ He’s too “fragile” and too “sickly” for all these special holiday meals and all their fats and sodium content and _ what-the-fuck-ever. _

Eddie wants to eat a slab of roast beef drowned in gravy just to prove that he _ can _ and it isn’t going to fucking kill him.

(But what if it does? What if he’s wrong?)

He’d cut off his right arm for a chance to celebrate with the Toziers, sibling-brawls and unhealthy food and all, but he’s also not such a huge asshole that he’d abandon his mom on Christmas. Like, he’s doing the whole _ “I’m a grown teenager and I can do what I want” _ bit but he’s keeping it _ reasonable. _ Just extracurriculars and secret jobs and the occasional sleepover with his friends, whether he has her blessing or not. He’s not sure he can take it as far as ruining her favourite holiday without the guilt of it rotting him from the inside out. As it stands, he’s still freaked out that she might find out about him smoking pot, somehow, and he’ll get in trouble -- and that was back in _ October. _

It’ll probably kill him if he accepts the invitation. Maybe not right away, but eventually. It’ll probably kill him if he doesn’t.

And therein lies the dilemma of the century.

“I’ll get back to you about it, okay?” he says all in a rush as Coach Harris calls after him again, whistle blowing harshly this time. Richie waves him off with a lopsided smile and Eddie hops right back into his practice lap.

  
  


So, for the sake of simplicity (saving himself the guilt), and even though he already knows what the answer’s going to be, he just asks. 

He doesn’t get how the fuck he manages to be disappointed when she says no. Like, he went in there fully anticipating that! 

He still tries to argue, because he’s an idiot, probably.

“Christmas, Eddie! Of all days, you want to leave me all by myself on _ Christmas? _ How could you be so cruel to your own mother? Do you have any _ idea _ how much suicide rates spike during the holidays? You’re going to leave me all alone in this house on the day everyone else is with _ family, _ to go play dreidel at the Toziers’? They don’t even celebrate Christmas properly, Eddie-bear!” 

Eddie should let her have her moment. It’s usually easier that way. It isn’t until she starts going on about how Richie is dirty and foul and is corrupting her baby, like she always does, that his patience really starts to wear thin. 

He loves his mother. He does. He has to. But he does _ not _ love the way she talks about his friends -- his _ other family, _ he’d go so far as to call them. She’s downright fucking rude about them at best, even though she _ knows _ they’re important to him. He wishes she could value them the way he does, but all she ever has is criticisms, even for Bill, who has been nothing but polite and charming and handsome, and never once given her a reason to dislike him. He’s the only one she even _ tolerates, _ right up there next to Stan, and she _ still _ finds reason to complain about them. 

“There’s nothing wrong with Richie! Jesus, why do you hate him so much?” he demands, still standing in the living room doorway, hands on his hips as he glowers at her. “Yeah, he swears a lot! Yeah, he listens to rock and roll music! So do I, mom!”

“You know _ exactly _ what’s wrong with that boy.” Her voice is taut and sharp, whip-like, and she’s now ignoring _ Roseanne _ altogether to glare right back.

“Enlighten me!” God, he shouldn’t be mad, he _ shouldn’t be mad, _ he needs to rein it the fuck in, but he _ hates _ it so much when she insults his friends to his face. Maybe she doesn’t realize it, but it just sounds like she’s outright telling him how little she values his relationship with them. That it doesn’t _ mean _ anything, but it means the fucking world to him, and she _ must _ realize that.

He’s sick to fucking death of having to craft his stories to gloss over any mentions of his “less desirable” friends, of having to lie about where he is or who he’s with. He’s sick of getting caught in those lies and getting in even more trouble than if he’d just told the truth. But it’s _ worth it, _ because at least he gets to spend time with his friends at all when he lies.

He doesn’t want friends he doesn’t have to lie about. He just wants to not have to lie about the friends he _ does _ have.

“He’s a queer, Eddie. He’s going to get one of you sick, one of these days. You better not let him touch you. You better not. I see him put his hands all over you every time you’re together, and frankly, it’s sickening. You need to put a stop to that immediately.”

Eddie can’t stop the laugh that tears out of him, stealing all the air from his lungs and making him lean against the door jamb to keep his balance. “Richie’s not… he’s…” He has to stop and wipe tears from the corners of his eyes, but he’s still laughing so hard his stomach is starting to ache and his eyes just keep watering. “He _ very _ much likes girls, mom. Have you _ met _him? What the hell gives you the impression that--?”

“Do _ not _ swear in front of your mother,” Sonia snaps, slamming one hand down, open-palmed, onto the armrest of her recliner and pointing the other at him. “You don’t understand because you’re young, and you’re naive, Eddie, but we grown-ups know these things. That boy is a faggot, and he’s a delinquent, and I don’t trust him around you. He’s going to get you sick.”

“I trust him plenty. I want to go to his house on the break. His parents want me there. Why is that so bad?”

“He _ smokes. _ He’s going to give you lung cancer from secondhand smoke if you spend too much time around him. It gets into your clothes and your pores and it makes the people around you sick. And he paints his nails, Eddie. Like a queer. He dresses like one, too.” Eddie’s got a hard fucking time believing that, but he’s also not sure what the fuck the actual queer boys wear -- he assumes it isn’t thrifted leather jackets and shirts that look like they're made from the same pattern as bus seats. Or maybe it is. He wouldn’t fucking know. “Next thing you know, he’s going to start wearing makeup and wigs and dancing on a stage, like all the homosexuals do.”

Eddie tries to imagine Richie dressed like a girl, curly blond wig and blue eyeshadow and all, and gets a good fucking laugh out of that one. He’s practically hunched over in the doorway, clutching his stomach. Richie would make up a really good Voice for that, probably something else southern to go with the arsenal he already has, something chipper and falsely amiable where he calls everyone “darlin’” and says stuff like “bless your heart.” 

“Richie talks about girls, like, all the time, mom. Maybe don’t make assumptions. We’re still just kids. Stuff like that doesn’t even matter yet.” And the irony of the situation -- oh, the _ irony _ is that _ Eddie’s… _ well, he’s got _ something _ going on in his chest around Richie, and maybe it’s butterflies and maybe it’s not. Maybe he’s really liked Richie for a really long time, or maybe they’re just such close friends that Eddie wants to be stuck by his side forever. 

(Maybe he kind of wishes Richie would kiss him, just to see what it’s like, or maybe he wishes Richie would kiss him because Eddie likes him _ that _ way and he isn’t sure he can _ stop. _ Maybe the hair’s breadth they were from making that a reality back in October is still fucking killing him inside, in several different ways. _ Maybe _ he thinks about it every night.)

“Don’t think I don’t know what teenagers get up to nowadays. He’s going to get AIDS and he’s going to pass it on to one of you. Just through spit or blood or… or _ breathing _ too close, and Eddie, my Eddie-bear, I don’t want that for you. I’m scared for you. Don’t get too close to him.” She isn’t less angry, but she’s posturing as if she is, which is only confusing Eddie instead of reassuring him. He’s also very busy thinking about kissing Richie again, which always feels like an image he has to beat away with a broom because it’s so fucking persistent and enticing. 

He’s going to defend Richie’s honour if it fucking kills him, not least because when his mom says those things, he’s pretty sure she’s insulting _ him, _ too. Whether she sees it that way or not. _ She’s _ the one who made him realize all this, after all. She knows there’s something wrong with him -- even if she thinks she “fixed” it, she still _ knows. _

And, _ fuck, _ he’s so scared of it, for all her reasons and then some. Because they’re in the middle of an epidemic. Because that’s _ deviant _ behaviour. Because it’s an _ illness. _ Because a boy who kisses other boys is as good as dead, whether it’s AIDS or bullies or his own self-loathing that gets to him first. 

He takes a deep breath and says, “So what if he was, anyway? It doesn’t make him a bad person. He’s still my friend. He’s still nice to me. I still like him.” Quiet anger hums just below his skin no matter how hard he tries to take calming breaths. He’s _ sick to death _ of the way his mom talks about Richie, and how it always feels like it’s really just directed at him.

It’s _ her fault, _anyway.

(No, he can’t think that; he’s terrible to think that. Who he is as a person is always going to be his own fault, even if he _ does _ wish he could change it, or wish he’d never realized it in the first place -- even if she _ was _ part of the reason he realized it in the first place.)

His mother is going red like she always does when she’s pissed about something, and he’s surely about to get an earful about how he needs to stop befriending the fucking _ town outcasts, _ or the deviants, or whatever her word of choice will be today, but his watch chooses this opportune time to remind him that he has a bunch of sugar pills to pretend to swallow, and he just--

He just doesn’t fucking want to, right now. He’s going to pretend to take them and then spit them all out as soon as he’s out of her sight, and they’re _ fake. _ They’re fucking fake and they don’t do anything for him except try to convince him that he’s weak, he’s _ fragile, _ he’s _ sick. _

He’s _ none _ of those things. 

He looks her dead in the eyes and turns the alarm off. Neither of them move for several long seconds. The air in the room crackles with tension.

“Eddie,” she says after what feels like an eternity. “Take your pills.”

Eddie stares for a while longer, then shakes his head. “Not unless you stop insulting my friends.”

“Edward Francis Kaspbrak, don’t you _ dare _ take that tone with me!” She’s rising from her chair, grunting with the effort, and her anger is palpable. 

“I don’t like it when you say mean stuff about them! It’s not fair! Leave them alone!” He stands his ground while she advances, shuddering a little as he tries to stand taller. 

“Take your pills.”

Her hand is on his arm. She’s holding too tight and her lips are white where they’re pressed together. He scowls. “Stop insulting my friends. Let me go to Richie’s during break. It doesn’t even have to be on Christmas.”

His mom stares at him, hard, for an uncomfortable stretch of time, and then instead of squeezing hard enough to bruise, she’s caressing his arm, shoulder to elbow and back again, and her other hand comes up to rest against his cheek, and she says sweetly, “Oh, Eddie, you know you can’t. In fact, if you try to go over there during the holidays, I’ll call the police and tell them he assaulted you.”

Eddie’s head spins. He can’t make sense of her words at first, and then he’s spluttering, shaking his head, trying to take a step back but her grip tightens again. “Wha-- you can’t do that! That’s lying! They’d know you were lying!”

“Would they? He gets such terrible behaviour reports from school, though, doesn’t he? They’d pin him as the type to act out, I think. They’d believe me. I suppose there’s only one way to find out.”

“You can’t do that to him! I’d… I’d tell them you were lying!” 

“What about that Hanlon boy? You wouldn’t want him to get in trouble.”

He doesn’t have a word for the feeling. The shot of fury into his veins, the ache of tears building in his eyes, the _ betrayal _ and the desperation to figure out just what the fuck it is she’s playing at. “Why would you do that?” he asks, voice cracking, lip wobbling, and _ Jesus, _ he’s trying so hard not to cry in front of her, doesn’t want to entertain her with his reaction to whatever game it is she’s trying to play. It’s not as if he’s really done anything _ wrong. _ He just wants to spend time with his friends -- it isn’t his fault she takes that as a personal offense!

Sometimes he thinks that he _ vastly _ prefers their company, and then he has to berate himself for being a fucking awful child, who dares to think he likes anyone more than his literal family.

“I don’t trust those monsters with you, Eddie-bear. There’s something _ wrong _ with them.” Her thumb caresses his cheek and he’s not sure if he doesn’t like it because he’s so unaccustomed to gentle affections from her or because her hands just _ feel _ dirty against his skin. “Wherever one of them goes, the rest are sure to follow, aren’t they? You’re never apart from them. They travel in… in a _ pack, _ and you are _ not _ going to be part of it.”

“They never did anything wrong, mommy, _ please--” _

“You’ve been spending too much time with them. Every day you come home late from school. Every weekend you disappear first thing in the morning. Mommy misses you, Eddie-bear. I thought we’d established that you can’t just waste all your free time gallivanting with those people.” She presses a slimy kiss to his forehead. He squeezes his eyes shut. “You should be home with _ me, _ spending time with your mother. I won’t be around forever. You’ll regret it when I’m gone.”

But, truthfully, he _ hasn’t _ been wasting his time “gallivanting.” He’s barely been with the Losers at all in the last few months. He’s got track practice every Tuesday and Thursday after school. Track _ meets _ on the occasional Saturday -- indoor meets for the winter season. He spends a few hours getting paid to learn how to fix cars at the Center Street Auto Shop on Mondays, Wednesdays, and most Saturday mornings. When he can, he’ll sneak in a visit with one of them or another. He’ll pop into the clubhouse when he knows a few people are there. He managed a trip to the Aladdin with Richie, Bill, and Stan last weekend -- a double feature, back-to-back action movies. 

He’s just constantly worrying about getting _ caught, _ in one lie or another (he’s _ sick to fucking death of lies) _ so he keeps cutting those things short, or just not bothering at all. 

He’s _ happy _ to be on the track team, and he’s grateful to Mr. McKinley for the learning opportunity (and for the money, obviously), but he’s not sure he’s _ overall _ satisfied. He misses his friends. That’s normal, though, isn’t it? If his mom would loosen the leash a little, maybe he’d have more chances to hang out with them, without having to deal with the nagging worry about being home too late and getting in trouble. 

But the options aren’t exactly overwhelming. He really does need that job, because he needs money to pay for college. He’s not stupid enough to think his mom has set aside money for that. He needs extracurriculars to apply for scholarships, to _ help _ with paying for college, and all that entails -- they’ve been talking, all the Losers have, and they’ve figured it would make the most sense to just rent a house together, so he’s got to factor in that cost, plus food, plus textbooks, plus any expenses he hasn’t even _ considered _ yet. 

And he needs his friends to help maintain his fucking sanity, he’s pretty sure. 

At least he has a psychic connection to them. It’s not as if being apart from them is _ really _ being apart. He’s in their heads. In fact, he’s listening in on Stan bird-watching literally right at this moment, perched on a bench at McCarron Park with Mike hovering around, an extra set of eyes and a defense measure in case of the appearance of Criss and his companions. They’ve been a lot more vigilant since the incident in the summer. 

That’s the _ thing, _ though. He can maintain his connection to his friends like this, but he can’t do things like keep his spot on the team or go to his actual job using the shine. Which puts him in quite the fucking pickle, because he _ wants _ to spend time with his friends. Physically. Not just pleading with Richie to stop singing _ Abba _ songs at three in the morning, or helping Bev pick a fabric for a dress she’s making. 

He gets pissed off all over again that she’s trying to make him _ choose, _ without her even realizing it, and it must show in his face because her eyes go wide and her bruising grip on him disappears. He doesn’t… he doesn’t want to bring his friends into the conversation again, because he doesn’t want her to _ threaten _ them like that again, but he needs to let it _ out _ somehow. It’s like scalding water in his chest. Like the kettle’s reached the boil. His hands shake from the pressure of it.

“I hate you,” he seethes, and he’s never said those words before and regrets them _ immediately, _ but he doesn’t stop to apologize. Just turns on his heel and books it up the stairs before she can see the tears overflow.

“Eddie!” she shrieks, heavy footfalls pursuing him, albeit much slower. “Edward, get back here _ now!” _

She keeps repeating that until his bedroom door slams shut, and then there’s merciful silence as he hunches over on the floor and cries.

By the time he’s crawled into his bed and is staring blankly at the ceiling, he’s already heard her car start up and rattle off down the road. And when she comes back, he doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t have it in himself to care when the front door slams, when the stairs creak as she ascends. When she calls his name from somewhere down the hall.

“What?” he shouts back after her third (increasingly hysterical) attempt at getting his attention.

“Eddie, _ come in here!” _

It doesn’t occur to him to proceed with caution until he’s throwing open the bathroom door, not even trying to hide the fact that he’s being all huffy and indignant about it, like a classic pissed-off teenager (like he fucking _ is). _ His mom is standing there with her arms crossed and there are plastic ice bags shoved into the garbage pail, a container of salt on the sink, and he _ freezes. _

“No,” he says.

She’s frowning at him. Her slippered foot taps impatiently on the tile. “Close the door.”

“Mommy…” His heart is hammering against his ribs. He fears they might break. There’s a phantom-pain from the memory of being held down in a tub full of ice that curls up his legs and knocks the breath out of him. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You and I both know that’s not true.”

“Mommy, _ please, _ I… I took my pills.” Mostly, he was going to lie about that because he doesn’t want her to start _ forcing _ him to yet again. Doesn’t want her to suspect he’s being actively defiant, and start monitoring him as he’s taking them. It’s an added bonus that it might appease her enough to make her reconsider the fucking… the _ ice bath. _

This does not, unfortunately, have the desired effect. “Good. Close the door.”

He could just leave the house altogether if he wanted. Go somewhere else. _ Anywhere _ else. Richie’s. Bill’s. Mike’s. He could go spend the night in the clubhouse. Would she change her mind about doing this if he altogether disappeared for a day or two? Or would that just further incentivize her to punish his wrongdoings?

He _ could _ leave. He probably should. He’s seriously considering it.

If he just submits himself to this, she’ll be quicker to forgive him, and that’s pretty much all he needs right now. He _ did _ do something wrong. He should never speak to her that way. He lost his temper. That’s on him.

He’d grovel to get her forgiveness but he knows she only accepts it the way she wants it.

There’s also the added bonus of her probably not following through on her threats to his friends if he’s forgiven. Maybe even revoking her demands that he avoid them. Even just getting her permission to spend time with them _ once in a while _ would be a blessing at this point. 

If he just listens _ now, _ she might be more lenient _ later. _ So he obediently closes the door, and he’s careful to keep his mouth _ shut _ as he strips down and allows her to guide him into the tub that’s full of ice.

It’s just as bad as he remembers. In fact, it’s _ worse. _ Every nerve in his body screams at him to remove himself from whatever the fuck situation is putting it through this, and he’s got to focus all his energy on ignoring it. Not so much on tuning the Losers out -- that’s an art he’s damn near perfected. Even when he was high as a kite he still managed to keep them all blocked out, or so he assumes, considering he was outright thinking about making out with his best friend and no one said anything about it after, and they’re all still friends with him, so they clearly didn’t overhear all _ that. _

He can get through this, no problem, he’s thinking. He’s done it once before, probably experienced _ worse _ punishments since, so he’s got this shit handled.

His mom makes him settle into the tub a little bit at a time, until his teeth are chattering and his shoulders are jumping and he’s fighting his instincts to just _ run, _ and once he’s sitting she keeps going.

“Wha--?” he starts, delirious from the pain of it already, when she plants a hand firmly on his chest and _ pushes, _ forcing him to lie down, submerging his torso so fast it drags a high-pitched gasp out of him before he’s _ completely _ breathless. He has to imagine this is equivalent to what being crushed to death feels like. His lungs won’t expand to take in air, or if they are, they’re working so fast that it isn’t actually accomplishing anything. He’s hyperventilating. His hands are scrabbling at the edges of the tub like he’ll be able to haul himself out of it if he can get a good enough grip.

Under normal circumstances his mother would be pressing his inhaler into his hands to remedy the problem, but she just keeps holding him down and watching him struggle to breathe, still frowning. 

“Eddie,” she says after what feels like an eternity but must only be a few seconds. “Do you hate me?”

He knows the answer she wants to hear but he really isn’t sure he can give it right now. Not only because he’s _ suffocating, _ but because he _ hates _ this. Not _ her, _ necessarily, but what she _ does _ to him. He _ does _ hate it, and in the moment he’s having difficulty separating his mother from her actions, since his brain is a little busy being in survival mode. His instinct is to tell her to go fuck herself, or something equally harsh that will _ definitely _ get his friends in trouble, but thank fucking god he _ can’t. _

That gives him a chance to talk himself out of it, but also for her to get mad that he’s hesitating at all and sprinkle salt into the tub, which honestly? Does _ not _ fucking help her get her response any faster. 

It’s like his entire body seizes and he throws his head back, an agonized sound whistling out of him between shallow breaths, and he half-twists around, onto his side, in spite of the weight of her hand on his chest. The side of his face and neck are submerged by the movement and it feels as if the ice is constricting around his _ throat, _ and he seizes again, slamming his knee into the side of the tub. He tries to say something, maybe “no” or “stop”, but all he manages is garbled wheezing. One of his hands grabs around her wrist, where she’s still holding him down.

He’s so overwhelmed with panic that he’s pretty sure his brain is shutting down, everything going hazy around him, and every part of his brain, still miraculously closed off from his friends, is howling that it _ hurts it hurts it hurts I’m dying stop I’m dying. _

When he was in the hospital, after he broke his arm, he was so full of painkillers that everything was hazy like this, distorted in ways he couldn’t make any sense of.

He gets the sense again of his mother molded and meshed into something resembling the leper he saw when that damned clown was hunting them like game, and he’s still not sure if that was ever something he saw or something he just _ thought _ of, but he remembers the nurse and her tangible dislike for his mother, the sensation of quite-nearly overhearing the thoughts of that nurse and Dr. Handor, the silent conversations they shared while his mother fussed and fretted and shouted. He remembers wanting to reassure her that his mother was not quite so bad as the leper. He remembers the dreams of the clown, the leper, the werewolf, and that atrocity that was all of those things and his mother at once. He’s hated hospitals more than ever since then.

In his panic-frenzy, or maybe just due to the lack of oxygen making its way to his brain at this precise moment, he thinks that’s what he’s seeing again. The leper-mother, silhouetted above him, _ she’s only eating me because she loves me. _

But this time, instead of painkiller-induced hallucinations, reality just being slightly off-center, and a pleasant numbness from the drugs, it’s painkiller-induced hallucinations, reality just being slightly off-center, and an _ enormous _ amount of pain that pricks and stings and tears all through his body. His groin and his whole chest, his thighs and throat and his tear-soaked cheeks, his armpits and ankles and a patch of skin on his lower back that’s terribly sensitive. All around where his forearm was broken when he was twelve and where his shoulder was dislocated only recently, like the nerve endings there are especially receptive to pain, or he’s just re-creating the pain by thinking about it.

One of her hands grabs him by the back of the neck and _ lifts, _ the jagged edges of her nails pinching at the skin there, dragging his top half out of the ice, gasping and trembling. “Eddie-bear, you need to answer your Mommy. Tell me you don’t hate me, Eddie. Don’t you love me? Tell me you love me. Tell me you didn’t mean it.”

He finds it in himself to nod, hands still fumbling for the edge of the tub so he can _ get himself the fuck out of here, _ because it feels like he’s on fire, ironically -- like he’s burning up in the coldest fire in the world. It must be leaving marks on his skin. He’s always had sensitive skin; his mom reminds him constantly. Surely there will be horrible scars where the ice cubes stick and pull and burn him. Somehow, his mother takes this fumbling as an invitation, or maybe a plea, and the hand that was pinning him down by the chest latches onto his and squeezes. 

“Oh, my baby boy. You love me? Mommy loves you so much. I’ll always love you. You’re such a good boy,” she croons, her nails still biting into his neck as he starts to go limp in her grip, anticipating that her reaction means he can be done with this. She loves him. She loves him. _She’s only eating him because she loves him._ It’s okay. He loves her and she _knows, _understands that he truly _does_ and he’s just in a bad mood, that’s all, he shouldn’t have taken it out on her, and she _loves_ _him,_ so it’s okay, now. “Thank you,” she says. “Thank you. You’re being so good for me.”

How it manages to be _ worse _ when she lowers him into the ice a second time is completely beyond him. He still can’t form words properly, but he makes some kind of noise that should indicate to her how much pain he’s in, that he’s _ done _ with this punishment, that she got what she wanted and he wants _ out. _ His own nails sink into her skin where their hands are clamped together and she pulls away, using it instead to hold him down again when he tries to sit up.

“I need you to use your words, now, please. Do you love me?”

Eddie _ tries, _ and all he gets is, “I-I... _ I... _ puh-huh- _ lease.” _

“Do you love your Mommy?”

He’s suffocating and for once she couldn’t fucking care less, can’t even be bothered to offer his inhaler, won’t let him out so he can try to get some air, and her hand on his chest is so much heavier than it has any right to be. Like it’s making his ribs grate together. Preventing any air from getting into his lungs at all, even if he wasn’t going all stiff and hyperventilating and shaking so hard it’s making his muscles constrict. He braces himself like he’ll be able to leap out of the tub as soon as she lets go, and forces out a high, wheezing, “I luh-love yuh-yuh-you.”

“Good! Very good!” He’s sitting up again, sucking in useless breaths, shaking so much the ice rattles around him in the tub. His skin is going bright red and shiny and sore. His tears are freezing on his cheeks and his ears are numb. The phantom weight of her hand still bears down on the center of his chest. “I forgive you, for what you said earlier. I know you didn’t mean it. You’d never mean that, right?”

He nods. Thinks better of it and says, “Right,” in a pitiful squeak as a shudder rips through him.

“Good. Of course you wouldn’t.” 

He doesn’t know why he thinks then that he’s off the hook. She lets him attempt breathing again for a few seconds, everything going grey at the edges when it still doesn’t quite work, and then she’s holding him down again, and this time he _ screams, _ a pathetic and half-formed thing (mostly he just wheezes as his throat continues to close up in the throes of an imaginary asthma attack). He wants to tell her ** _stop_ ** _ I’m suffocating I can’t _ ** _breathe_ ** _ can’t you see that I can’t _ ** _breathe_ ** _ I’m going to die I’m gonna die I don’t wanna die mommy _ ** _please._ **

“Let’s try this next. Will you be spending any time with those little _ monsters _ without my permission?”

Eddie’s halfway to _ flailing, _ now, so he’s not sure if she can tell that he shakes his head, but doesn’t give any indication that she caught it, if she did. Just keeps holding him there. 

The grey creeps further across his consciousness and he’s resigning himself to just passing out like this, or maybe just fucking dying like this, when she speaks again. “And you know what will happen if I catch you with them without my permission?”

“Y-yuh-yeah,” he squeaks.

He’s made to sit upright again. She has to support most of his weight. He tries counting how long it takes to inhale, counting to hold the breath, exhaling _ slowly, _ but it doesn’t seem to help much. Sonia pretty well drags him out of the tub, for all the help he is, and _ finally _ his inhaler is in his hands, and it’s like everything dissipates just like that. Just by holding it.

Not because it makes him feel any better, but because he _ doesn’t fucking need it. _ It’s a placebo. It’s fake. The _ suffocating _ is all on him. All in his head. 

He _ still _ can’t fucking breathe, but knowing this isn’t something that’s really going to kill him helps a little. Makes the sense of impending doom fade just enough for him to turn his attention to _ relaxing, _ a difficult feat when your body keeps tensing up through an endless bout of shivering. This isn’t asthma. This isn’t his lungs swelling up or his throat closing.

He’s just scared.

Doesn’t his mom know that doing things like this makes him scared?

He puts it to his lips and pretends to press the trigger to appease her, and nothing more. _ She _ still thinks he has asthma, but on principle, he doesn’t use the damn inhaler anymore. It feels like a weakness to do so -- he’s plenty capable of remembering how to breathe on his own, no matter how terrifying the process can be. He doesn’t need flavoured mist to help. He swore off _ all _ his medications, and he means that. 

Eddie Kaspbrak is not _ weak, _ nor does he intend to be. 

He’s too busy taking gasping breaths and trying to quell the shivering to protest when his mom starts rubbing him down with a towel, pausing to squish his cheeks between her cold hands and press kisses to his forehead. “My Eddie,” she’s saying, “I’m so sorry we had to do that. You understand, right? No one should speak to their mother that way. No one should _ disobey _ their mother like that.”

“I’m suh-suh-sorry,” he tries to tell her through chattering teeth, because she’s _ right _ and he _ knows _ that, he just gets carried away sometimes. He says stuff he knows he shouldn’t. _ Does _ stuff he knows he shouldn’t. 

“I know you are, Eddie-bear, I know.” She kisses his forehead again, fervently, dragging the towel roughly up and down his leg in an attempt to warm it up again. “We’ll talk about your friends, okay? I know you don’t want to be apart from them forever, not all of them, but I’m still your mother and you still need to have my permission for these things, alright?”

He nods, tears springing to his eyes again. “O-okay. Thank you.”

Instead of just leaving him there, like last time, she helps him into his pyjamas and a thick pair of socks, then leads him downstairs. Navigating the stairs is a challenge, to say the least, what with his legs being damn near completely numb, but they manage. And then she’s… making him hot chocolate?

He fucking _ loves _ hot chocolate, and she knows this, but it’s just so unhealthy, he’s never allowed to have it. Maybe a sip from her mug here and there when he hasn’t stopped staring to the point of it grating on her nerves, and then it’s straight to the washroom to brush his teeth _ (you don’t want cavities, Eddie -- dental hygiene affects your overall health, didn’t you know). _

But, no, the steaming mug is being pressed into _ his _ hands, her fingers petting through his damp hair, as he’s directed into the living room with a hand on the back of his neck, and squeezed into the recliner beside her. More like on top of her; she doesn’t leave much space in the thing. It doesn’t matter, because she’s _ warm, _ very warm, and he really can’t fucking complain, can he? She drapes a blanket over them both, and it’s _ warmer. _

“Are you alright?” she asks, and Eddie’s having trouble reading her emotions but she just… looks and sounds so _ sincere, _ so remorseful, that even though he’s still trembling a bit, and most of his body feels numb where it doesn’t outright _ sting, _ he nods. 

“Yeah, I feel better already.”

“What would you like to watch?” She puts the television remote into his free hand. How the hell this managed to be one of his best nights with his mother, despite everything, is beyond him. They don’t often get along. He can’t _ remember _ the last time she held him like this. Typically she’d be nitpicking and he’d be complaining, or the other way around, and it would deteriorate into an argument that resulted in him locking himself in his room (or _ being _ locked in, if it was particularly nasty) and his mom quietly stewing all night. 

There isn’t a single complaint from her as he flips the channels until he finds _ The Fresh Prince of Bel Air. _ No comment on his choice of show, or any indication of her disapproval. 

He falls asleep just like that, full of hot chocolate, a lazy smile on his face as he watches Will Smith panic about living with his mother into his old age. It draws little huffs of laughter out of him even while his eyes are slipping closed and his head is falling onto his mom’s shoulder.

She loves him, so it’s okay.

* * *


	29. The disappearance of Edward Francis Kaspbrak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan and Richie have a heart-to-heart. It goes about as well as most things in Richie Tozier's life seem to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoop whoop sorry this is late. next chapter is Big Sad, just a forewarning. 
> 
> CW:  
-internalized homophobia  
-slurs  
-almost panic attacks

* * *

February 1993

* * *

It’s just the two of them left in the clubhouse. Mike had to leave a while ago because he has “responsibilities” on his family farm, and that only increases with each passing year. Bill offered to accompany him, for the sake of him not trekking across Derry alone with Victor Criss on the loose (like he’s a wild fucking animal they all have to be wary of). Ben was quick to follow them, not so much because he was worried about heading home alone, but because it’s fucking _ cold _ in here, being that it’s the middle of February, and they’re definitely all a little crazy for coming here in the first place. 

No one’s really _ said _ it, but Eddie’s disappearance from their lives has taken a toll. The same way things just felt amiss when Beverly moved, but _ worse, _ because at least she kept in constant contact and they had a good explanation for her absence -- she was in fucking Portland, living with someone who _ didn’t _ beat the shit out of her on a regular basis. Eddie’s given them nothing. He avoids them at school and doesn’t answer the phone and no one can pry open the barrier into his headspace to figure out what’s going on. He won’t even acknowledge them through their bond, but he _ also _ won’t come to the door when Stan or Bill comes knocking and Sonia always turns up her nose and tells them how _ her Eddie doesn’t want to see them. _

They came here to try to feel normal, in some kind of unspoken pact. It didn’t work. Richie thinks he just feels _ worse. _ There’s a cold empty space in the hammock beside him. He has a brand new pair of white converse and a pack of permanent markers and no one to fight over them with. No one to write _ “TRASHMOUTH” _ in careful red letters across the sides and add polka dots and twirly mustaches and a little cat doodle, like Eddie did with his last pair, the ones he wore holes into the soles of until his mother threw them out _ herself _ after he kept refusing. 

They sit in silence, Stan bundled against the cold as he sits primly on the sofa they shoved into the corner to make more space on the floor, one of his ornithology books open on his lap. He’s not going to leave until Richie decides he’s ready, and they both know this without having to acknowledge it.

It’s probably obvious that Richie’s worse off than all of them in the circumstances. Eddie is, after all, his best friend, in some sense -- they’re _ all _ best friends but Eddie’s _ different, _ and Richie knows _ why, _ but even if the rest of them don’t, they can surely tell it’s _ different. _ Just like it’s probably obvious that it’s just _ emptier _ in here, even when the rest of the Losers are present. Bev understands. Bev knows him all too well. 

Bev’s been trying to get to the root of Eddie’s problem just as much as the rest of them have but has been equally unsuccessful. They don’t need it, being telepathically connected and all, but often Richie sits up at night with the phone in his hand, Bev on the other end, whispering into the handset and scrubbing tears from his eyes. It’s childish, maybe, but he doesn’t care anymore. He’s so torn between fucking _ hunting Eddie down _ at school and cornering him to demand answers, and respecting his decision not to talk to _ any of them _ (as if that’s _ at all _ fair of him). He wants to… he wants to fucking climb in his window and refuse to leave until Eddie tells him what the fucking _ problem _ is. He’ll help him figure it out. They _ all _ will. It’s what they _ do. _

He wants Eddie to approach them on his own, knowing that he can trust them with anything, that they’re willing to help him with _ anything. _

He doesn’t want silence. Like Eddie _ can’t _ bring his problems to them. He has to know that he can. He _ has _ to.

Richie turns the shoe over in his hands and writes, in tiny baby blue letters, right by the heel, _ “R+E” _ before thinking better of it and scribbling it out.

He’s _ aching. _

Is everything okay? Eddie would tell them if he wasn’t okay, right? 

Something like the threat of tears burns in his throat.

“Hey, Stan?”

“What?”

“Can I tell you something, if you promise not to judge me?” he asks, second-guessing himself all the way, already trying to come up with a lie to hide whatever confession he was about to make.

Stan glances up from the book perched on his knees and their gazes lock. Stan must see, or at least _ feel, _ the anxiety radiating off him, because his shoulders relax and he smiles almost amiably, and Richie thinks that, _ yeah, _ Stan’s been one of his closest friends practically since birth and even though they drive each other batshit, they’ll have each other’s backs till the end. There’s nothing he could say to Stan that would damage their friendship at this point. Not even something everyone else in the world would judge him for. _ Just Stan and Bev. _ Just Stan and Bev is okay. That’s enough. That takes some of the weight of it off of his chest, the same way carving his feelings into the Kissing Bridge had, temporarily, relieved some of the burden. 

Except then, before he can even work up the courage to just get that tiny little sentence out of his dumb trash mouth, Stan says, “I already know.”

Richie’s pretty sure his heart stops beating altogether. _ “What?” _

“About Eddie? Richie, do you think I’m stupid?”

“I don’t... but I’ve only ever told-- but I was hiding it _so--_ _how do you know?”_

Stan closes the book. Sits up a little straighter. Doesn’t break eye contact, and Richie’s starting to feel awfully vulnerable under that analytical hazel. “You know that feeling you get when you look at him?”

“No?” Richie says, like it’s a fucking question, like he’s got _ anything _ to be confused about here when _ he’s _ the one who is _ stupidly _ fucking head-over-heels in love with his best friend. Then, digging deeper, trying to remember if there _ is _ something off whenever he looks at Eddie that he might accidentally be broadcasting for the rest of them to feel, he changes his answer to, “Maybe?”

Stan heaves a world-weary sigh. “Well, the rest of us do.”

Okay, yeah, Richie has one-hundred percent gone into cardiac arrest. “Oh _fuck_ are you serious?” he demands, sitting upright so fast that the hammock flips over and dumps him out on the floor. _‘Like, _**_everyone?’_** he adds, as he struggles to stand back up despite the fact that he’s pretty sure he’s _literally_ dying.

“Um, yeah,” Stan says, like it’s _ obvious, _ and he probably _ feels _ Richie’s impending heart attack because he stands, then, and sets the book aside. He tries to sound placating, probably, as he tells him, “Richie, it’s _ fine.” _

_ “Fine _ is not the word I would use to describe this situation!” Oh, fuck, he’s gotta make sure no one else can hear -- or feel -- him _ freaking the fuck out, _ which is hard to do when he’s busy _ freaking the fuck out, _ because he’s got to channel his energy into throwing up some kind of barrier between him and everyone else. His chest is too small for his lungs, suddenly, which isn’t helping, and everyone _ knows _ and they’ve all got good reasons to judge him, or turn their backs on him altogether, especially-- “Eddie, holy fuck, does Eddie know?”

Is he just fucking _ humouring _ him? Is he just fucking _ pretending _ he doesn’t know Richie wants to… to… _ God, _ he doesn’t even know anymore. Just _ everything. _ He wants _ everything. _ He wants to hold him while he falls asleep _ all the time, _ he wants to stare at him under the sun all day, he wants to wipe his tears and kiss his cheeks and -- a large part of him is deeply ashamed to admit -- fulfill the kind of fantasies he’s been running on since he figured out what masturbation was. 

And if Eddie _ knows _ those things, he’s probably disgusted at _ best. _

A horrible thought occurs to him then: that Eddie’s avoidance of him, and of the group at large, is a product of that disgust. That he _ found out _ and now he wants nothing to do with Richie, or the people who would dare befriend a _ gross faggot _ like him, and the worst part is Richie would probably still love him even if that were the case. He doesn’t know how to _ un-love _ him at this point -- doesn’t have a single fucking earthly clue how to detangle his heart from all its hopeless attachments to Eddie.

“Richie, really, I promise you, it’s fine.” He’s guided to sit on the hammock and his hands are pried out of his hair, which he’d barely been aware of pulling on in his fit. He’s halfway to hyperventilating, he realizes, as Stan’s weight settles beside him, cautious, so as not to tip the whole thing again. He tries out the very same breathing exercises Eddie uses to calm down when he has his not-asthma attacks, when it feels like his lungs are being wrung out and his throat is closing up, which is just about how Richie feels right now. “Eddie doesn’t know,” Stan assures. “He’s the only one.”

That’s only a tiny bit comforting. “Are you mad?” he asks before he can stop himself.

Stan’s hand touches his shoulder gently, then firmly, and Richie can’t look at him. Can’t do it. Maybe they were _ all _ pretending not to know. Bev knows, but Bev is _ really fucking good _ at making people feel comfortable enough to share their secrets with her, and just coercive enough to draw them out a little bit at a time -- but he’s already _ had _ that freak-out. It’s gone and past and now Bev is just the person who listens to his bitching and torments him by giving the object of his affections makeovers that she _ knows _ will probably send him to an early grave. _ This _ is a whole _ new _ freak-out, and this time it involves _ four _ people finding out instead of just one. “Why would I be mad?” Stan asks, soft in his voice and in his mannerisms.

Richie sighs, so deep it feels like he deflates a bit, and leans forward to bury his face in his hands. “Isn’t everyone when it comes to this shit? I’d be… Ah’d be fixin’ for a whuppin’ if ah evah told anyone,” he says in a half-assed attempt at his Southern Gentleman Voice. 

He’s outgrown Stan _ significantly _ in the last few years, so it’s a bit awkward when Stan tries to draw him down into an embrace -- tries to cradle him as if to protect him from all the horrors of the world beyond this little bubble, as if a hug isn’t a reciprocal thing, as if Richie is something petite and fragile and in need of care.

(Maybe he feels like that, right now.)

Stan just _ holds _ him like that and it almost, _ almost _ seems that things could be alright for him, though maybe that’s Stan projecting reassurance and security onto him like his life depends on it. “Of course we’re not _ mad, _ Richie. We love you. You really think whether you’re interested in boys or girls matters _ that much _ to us?”

There’s the sharp taste of tears in the back of his throat again, burning in his nose, swelling behind his eyes, as he presses his face against Stan’s shoulder and tries to compose himself. Stan’s hand drags across the back of his head in a slow, comforting motion. Richie’s side is cramping where he’s contorted himself to lean down into his space, and he has to breathe deeply a few more times (in through his nose, out through his mouth, _ slow, _ just like when they have to bring Eddie down from that amped-up hysteria he snaps into all-too-easily). “The world is in the middle of an AIDS crisis. Aren’t you worried I’m diseased or something?” He tries to make it sound light-hearted, he _ tries, _ tries to sound like he’s just joking around, just getting off a good one, but his voice cracks and the first tear slips down his cheek and even if Stan can’t see it, he sure as hell _ felt _ it, in the channel of communication Richie was foolish enough to leave open between them. 

“I thought we established that wasn’t exclusive to gay men a long time ago.” Stan pets over his hair again and Richie pinches his face to try to stop the tears. His fingers around Stan’s bicep tighten their grip as he fights with himself over it. _ Gay men. _ Fuck -- that’s _ him. _ That’s the word. That’s the _ thing _ he keeps trying to hide behind an endless flow of witticisms about women’s bodies and raiding panty drawers and screwing everyone’s mom. All the girls he’s allegedly made out with and the ones he’s allegedly done _ more _ with, and he’s gotten himself so tangled up in that web of lies he doesn’t know up from down anymore. He doesn’t have any interest in those things. He wishes to God he did, but he can’t force it, and now he’s in deep, having tried so hard to convince _ himself _ of his heterosexuality that it’s half his personality now, isn’t it? That’s what the good people associate Trashmouth Tozier with: his nearly obsessive fixation with women and all they have to offer. 

His obsessive fixation lies somewhere else entirely. 

Maybe he doesn’t know up from down, but he knows what Eddie’s hands feel like in his, and which freckles don’t fade away in the absence of the summer sun, and which ice cream _ not _ to buy him. He knows what he sounds like when he first wakes up in the morning. Knows the soft feeling in his heart when Eddie is high and he’s got his head thrown back to accommodate the force of hearty, unabashed laughter (and how contagious it is). Knows the intricacies of so many of his emotions, parallel to Richie’s own, like their bodies are meshed together and he can’t tell _ who _ felt _ what _ first.

It’s coming on like a tsunami, some kind of breakdown, probably, something full of snot and tears and apologies and reassurances. He can feel it rising in his chest. The tide withdrawing abruptly from the shore.

“Besides,” Stan says, shrugging a little bit, impeded by Richie’s weight slumped against him, “it’s not as if you’ve been running around having unprotected sex with strangers.” And he says it so flippantly, yet still in that steady-and-clinical way that Stan-the-Man Uris operates -- that dirty word he’d go red at up until they were teenagers (and even a little beyond that), that it startles a laugh out of Richie.

The tide rolls back in slowly, easing laughter out of him all the way, and he has to sit back and scrub at his eyes at some point, and Stan is _ grinning _ at him. “Says who?” he barks out, looking a little crazed in the image of himself reflected back from Stan’s head-space (lopsided smile wild, eyes red and damp, dark hair all twisted up, a mark across his cheek and forehead from the seam on Stan’s shirt). 

“I'm in your head. I've known you since we were in diapers. I can tell when you're lying. If you were having sex -- hell, if you had _ kissed _ somebody -- I would have known.”

“Hey, don’t be presumptuous!” Richie sniffles a little, nose still threatening to run, hands still trembling minutely. “I could have kept that information locked away. In a secret compartment in my brain, that only _ I _ have access to.” _ Like Eddie manages to do with everything, all the fucking time, _ he thinks almost bitterly.

Stan pauses and squints at him, pulling a _ face, _ then says, “Because you wouldn’t have been able to shut up about it, genius.”

“Yeah, no, yeah. You’re right. That is absolutely correct. You would have gotten _ all _ the deets.”

_ “Everyone _ would have. It would be unavoidable.”

“Wait, does that mean you know I’m a virgin?”

Stan makes that same face again, and Richie is starting to realize it’s his _ “wow, you’re a fucking idiot” _ face, just toned down for this conversation because Richie’s still shaking a little, his heart’s still working just a bit too fast in his chest, but Stan still wants him to know he’s a fucking idiot, even _ gently. _ “We have literally just established that, yes.”

“Damn, I’m gonna have to update my material,” Richie jokes, slinging an arm around Stan’s shoulders to draw him in closer with only some hesitation. Stan goes easily. That’s reassuring enough. 

“I’m not mad,” he says again before Richie is able to get anything else out. “I told you that. _ We’re _ not mad. We’re not fucking homophobes. It’s the _ nineties.” _

“Stan--”

“No, listen.” Stan doesn’t shove him away completely, but he does push him far back enough to look him dead in the eye. “You’re Richie. You’re _ Trashmouth. _ No matter _ what _ trash is coming out of your mouth, or who it’s about. That’s you. And the Losers? We love you. Doesn’t matter what. You could… hell, you could kill someone and we’d still love you, you know that, right?”

Richie’s a bit shocked, yeah, but he can’t say that’s _ entirely _ unexpected. The feeling is mutual, after all. He’s on autopilot as he holds out a pinky towards Stan and says, like it’s any kind of promise at all, “Losers gotta stick together?”

Stan hooks their pinkies together and he’s smiling all _ terribly _ fond and Richie can’t help but return it. “Losers gotta stick together.”

“So, was that permission to commit homicide, or--?”

Stan yanks their hands apart and _ whaps _ him lightly on the shoulder, barely enough for him to feel it. “As if you would, mister ‘I’m a lover, not a fighter.’”

“Just checking.”

There’s a momentary quiet, then Richie musters up the courage to ask, “So, how long have you, uh, _ known?” _

He can _ feel _ Stan debating the question in his mind, gears turning, the _ is the truth fair _ prominent, and for a second he’s afraid of the answer (afraid Stan had just taken a wild fucking guess and had hit the nail on the head, and Richie had done all of that confessing on accident). But he says, “I wanna say, since we were about twelve,” and Richie isn’t _ afraid, _ not at all -- he just tosses his head back and laughs into the freezing, stale air of the clubhouse. 

“Fuck, dude, that long?”

“Well, it’s not like you were doing a particularly fantastic job of hiding it!”

Richie laughs _ more, _ and Stan joins him at some point, just as he realizes he’s managed to channel all that dread he was feeling (all the _ guilt _ about keeping secrets and about just _ being _ the way he is, the fear of rejection, of abandonment, of being cut off from this wonderful, unbelievable connection he has with his favourite people in the whole world) and turn it into something _ good. _ Turn it into a couple of dumb jokes and the soft love of an unbreakable friendship, and shared laughter that blends together into one beautiful sound in an enclosed space. _ Stan did that. _

“If it means anything, I kind of get it,” he says once they’ve calmed down, once Richie is slouched over sideways in the hammock with one leg kicked up, and Stan is lounging across from him, facing him, feet digging into his side. 

There’s none of the negativity left at all, not even a trace, not even a little nagging thought to spare that _maybe one of them _**_does_**_ hate you for this._ If anything, he feels suddenly, miraculously unencumbered, freed from the weight of a secret he’s been carrying for _years._ Sure, he’s going to be bending over backwards to keep it from Eddie for the rest of his life, but he has _this._ He has the rest of the Losers supporting him, and he has Bev to give him counsel when he’s desperate and Stan to hold him when he’s down, and now he’s not going to have to invent lies to explain his lows anymore. 

He rolls his head a bit to the side to look at Stan properly. “Get what?”

Stan half-shrugs. “Eddie. Like, I get why it’s _ him.” _

Richie turns that over in his head for a second, decides, _ fuck it, _ and says, “I’ll be honest, it was Bill first, even though I’m pretty sure that was more like a hero-worship thing, but don’t let me stop you from telling me _ all about _ why you think Eddie Kaspbrak is hot and how you’re just green with envy whenever he lets me use him as an arm rest.”

Stan laughs so hard he _ snorts, _ kicking Richie several times, half-assed little bunny kicks. “Beep-fucking-beep, Richie. You’re ridiculous.”

“Am I wrong?”

“I just meant that you’re good together! You two get along really well, which is actually probably a _ bad _ thing, considering you can’t be left alone together for more than five seconds, but I get _ why _ you, y’know, feel that way about him.”

“‘And also he’s very cute,’” Richie adds, in an imitation of Stan’s voice, which he fucking nails, thank you very much. Then he gasps and pretends to look scandalized while Stan’s raucous giggling starts up again. “Mr. Uris, if I didn’t know any better I’d say you were gearing up to steal him all for your own self!”

“No, I’m pretty sure that’s just your disturbingly potent puppy love rubbing off on the rest of us.”

“If I catch you pinching his cheeks, I’m going to have to have you arrested for trespassing, you get that, right?”

“Richie, I know I just finished telling you how much we all love you, but sometimes I _ swear--” _

  
  


“And don’t...” Stan says once they’ve bundled themselves up against the dreadful cold of a New England February and left the relative warmth and safety of the clubhouse. “Don’t go there. Just for now,” he finishes, hesitating over every word like he has to size it up first, gaze settled on some point far beyond Richie.

He doesn’t have to ask to know what he means, and it isn’t as if he’d been _ planning _ to sneak into Eddie’s house just to make sure he’s still alive and kicking. He’s been... _ considering _ it, sure, of _ course _ he has. But there was never a solid plan formulated in his head. Probably.

Maybe subconsciously.

And he agrees, but he knows before the words are even out of his mouth that it’s a promise destined to be broken, especially with the scratched-out “_ R+E” _ on the heel of the shoe crammed in his knapsack among countless loose papers and empty snack wrappers. 

Stan blinks a few times and turns away, walking briskly back through the Barrens and towards civilization as if the conversation had never passed between them.

* * *


	30. Sonia Kaspbrak's home remedies, part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie deals with the consequences of someone else's actions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter:  
-HUGE vomit warning (sorry this is a recurring theme I know)  
-manipulation  
-internalized homophobia  
-slurs  
-technically more DIY conversion therapy
> 
> (Eddie, baby, you are SO CLOSE to figuring it out)  
I am d r u n k also Eddie is wildly indecisive and I love that about him. He's like plucking petals off a flower going "it's okay to love Richie," "it ISN'T okay to love Richie," "it's okay to love Richie..." idk if his mom got off his fucking back maybe he could live his best life idk just a thought :/  
It's funny bc I wrote most of this on mother's day

* * *

March 1993

* * *

The problem _ is, _ is that Eddie knows that if the _ Losers _ know why he’s been avoiding them, they’ll immediately offer a million reasons why that’s _ stupid, _ why it’s ridiculous, why they aren’t afraid of petty threats from his mother.

But _ he _ is -- just afraid enough to avoid seeing them, as much as he can, and avoid telling them, and avoid his connection to them. 

If he refuses to acknowledge them outside of the occasional shared class or lunch breaks at a shared table (where he glances over his shoulder as if Sonia Kaspbrak will materialize in the cafeteria and _ catch him _ ), and eventually they get fed up and stop _ trying, _ he won’t have to worry about any of them getting in trouble. Even if she _ is _bluffing. He shouldn’t take that risk. It’s not fair to them.

It’s best not to get caught with any of them, at all, ever, no matter how much that pains him.

Of course, he’d stupidly underestimated their persistence, and has now, on several occasions, just barely resisted the urge to go to the door when he hears Bill or Stan come knocking; wants to say, _ “Yes, please, come inside. I’ve missed you so much I can hardly stand it.” _

It’s mostly been Ben, because he’s impossible to avoid and Eddie can’t quit the track team if he still wants any scholarships, at least not until June. _ At least one year of extracurriculars, _ and he doesn’t have anything else lined up, or anything else that _ interests _ him, and maybe, selfishly, he enjoys those interactions with Ben, even if only brief and strained. He hasn’t tried to pry into what the hell Eddie has going on since the first time, when he’d snapped _ (snapped, _ at Ben Hanscom, of all people) that he didn’t want to fucking talk about it and he’d better not try if he wanted to keep out of Eddie’s bullshit, and, yeah -- he was pretty fucking rude about it, but Ben never brought it up again. 

But that’s all he allows himself, because Sonia won’t _ know _ about this, won’t find out the way she’s so viciously capable of _ finding out _ everything else about him, picking him apart with ease and pointing out flaws he hadn’t been previously aware of, sniffing out his lies; hell, knowing, somehow, when he’s planning to sneak out and stopping that shit in its tracks.

_ “Alright,” _ she’ll decide one day soon enough, _ “I think you’ve learned your lesson. Maybe you could go to the Denbroughs’ for the afternoon, would you like that?” _ And he looks forward to it like he’d look forward to a fucking heart transplant if he was confined, day after day, to a hospital bed (feels like he pretty well is, sometimes).

For now, though, he has _ this, _ a Saturday-morning track meet at Cleaves Mills High School, in a spacious gymnasium that makes Derry High’s own facilities look like a dump. He has Ben nearby and a lie about running errands and getting some fresh air keeping his ass covered, in case his mom decides to pry, and when a hand touches his shoulder it’s just Ben smiling sheepishly and saying, “I can ask Stan to pretend you were helping with his history essay, if you want.”

Eddie almost agrees, then remembers _ I’m not allowed to see Stan. I’m not allowed to see _ ** _any of you._ ** _ Not yet. Soon. Maybe soon. _ She usually gets over these things in a few weeks, and now it’s pushing a few _ months, _ so she’s bound to ease up at _ some point, _ right?

She can’t keep him hidden away from his friends for the rest of his high school career. She knows how that ended last time, and he knows even without the partial telepathy that she doesn’t want a repeat of _ that. _ She just wants to see how short the leash can be. 

He’s nearing the fucking _ end _ of it, for sure.

“That’s alright,” he says, curtly. “I’m supposed to be picking up my prescriptions right now, as far as she’s aware.” But he already got them, last night on his way home from school, and they’re ready to go, in his backpack, so he can pretend to have been running _ real _ errands when he gets home.

He’s got this “overbearing mom” bullshit handled. Sort of. (Still misses his friends terribly, day in and day out, but doesn’t dare tell them yet.)

“How did you get here?” Ben asks, crouching beside him to do his warm-up stretches.

“Bus.” And a ton of hand sanitizer. And a very long mental pep-talk.

Ben frowns. “You could have come with us.”

_ Us? _ Eddie almost says aloud, but then he follows Ben’s gaze across to the bleachers to where-- “Oh, Jesus fucking Christ.”

Black and orange paint -- the official Derry High Tigers colours -- and he’s sure it isn’t meant to be used on skin (is probably acrylics or oil paints or something that will stain, and he realizes not for the first time that the friends he adores and misses so dearly are all complete morons) on their bare torsos. Black and orange paint reading _ “LOSERS” _ in big, bold, uneven letters.

“Do you think they realize that makes it look like they’re calling our team losers?” Ben asks, and Eddie snorts.

“Doubt it.” That word has been stripped of its true meaning by their liberal use of it, anyway, and they’ve accidentally turned it into something _ good _ in their heads, but to outsiders it still means the same old thing. The thing that they _ are, _ the thing that brought them together, but nothing _ good _ by normal standards. Bill, Mike, Stan, and Richie probably never even considered that, and definitely never considered the more sane and sensible approach of just painting “_DERRY” _ or “_TIGERS” _ on their bodies (because they’re _ morons, _ and Eddie loves them a lot in spite of that, or perhaps _ because _ of that.)

And, of course, in a stroke of genius, they’ve painted the _ “RS” _ on Richie’s stomach, of all places, and Richie is notoriously unable to sit (or stand) still for more than half a second at a time, if that, so the only message they’re _ really _ getting across, in the end, is “_LOSE.” _

Which is enough to wrench a burst of helpless laughter out of Eddie, as Ben follows suit, and he’s smiling the most he’s smiled since probably December as the rest of the Losers’ club catches sight of them and they begin jumping and waving, making a good chunk of the Derry track team pull faces at them and their inappropriate-at-best word choice.

“Oh my God, they’re idiots,” Ben says, awestruck, wiping tears of mirth from under his eyes as he waves back. 

Richie does some kind of jig where he stands, kicking his knees up so high he manages to clip someone sitting in front of him between the shoulders, and Eddie has to put his face in his hands to sigh (and hide the disgustingly fond smile he knows he’s sporting and simply can’t will away). He doesn’t even have to be _ trying _ to let Richie in his head to feel the tickle of glee that rises up in Richie at the exasperated reaction to his antics.

He wants to run up there and hug them all, and maybe he _ could, _ and maybe he could also be stupid enough to catch a ride home with them, like Ben offers, and risk his mother _ seeing, _ and being helpless to stop her as she phones up the Derry police department and tells them all kinds of heinous lies about what terrible people his friends are, all their wrongdoings, all the reasons she can cook up to get them dragged out of his life forever -- he goes cold just at the thought.

But Eddie Kaspbrak _ is _ stupid, it seems, because he takes them up on the offer in the end, if only because it saves him time waiting at bus stops (and saves him from touching all the filthy fucking unwashed surfaces on public transit, a phobia his mother put in his head that he worries he’ll never be able to shake). Maybe that’s just _ selfish. _ Wanting to be home before his mom starts wondering after him, starts coming up with questions to interrogate him as soon as he walks in the door, about where he’s been and what took so long and _ I called the pharmacy, Eddie, just to be sure you made it there okay, and they said you hadn’t been by at all, and why do you lie to me? Why do you hate me? _

Maybe it’s selfish that he wants to be around his friends, just for a moment. Wants Richie’s arm around his shoulders, wants the bear-hug he gets from Mike, wants to bask in the shared joy of what feels like finally coming _ home _ (but, no, _ this _ isn’t home, and that’s hardly fair to his mother). 

There isn’t a peep the entire drive back about his absence from their lives over the last few months, or how he’s been avoiding them even at _ school _ sometimes, or how he barely even talks to _ Ben _ even though they’re on the same goddamn track team. There’s just obnoxious music that they obnoxiously sing along to and a high, loose feeling in his chest, like he’s been untethered from some melancholy weight.

(And the nebulous, creeping knowledge hanging, threatening, over his mind, that _ he can’t do this again. _ This is a terrible idea and he’s a terrible son for outright disobeying his mother like this, and until she relents and permits him to see his friends again, he’s just going to have to suck it up and keep pretending they don’t exist, whether he likes it or not.)

It’s a miracle they aren’t caught. He makes Bill drop him off at the corner of Kansas and Astoria and walks the rest of the way home, to find his mom in the living room, fast asleep in her La-Z-Boy, snoring raucously. 

_ No need for excuses, then, _ he thinks as he leaves the bag of pills -- pills that he’s just going to throw away instead of actually _ taking _ \-- on the kitchen counter, along with a small stash of non-perishables from his quick stop at the Costello Avenue Market this morning, to make it look as if he’d really been doing something productive and not “risking” his life, health, and safety to do something as scandalous and as _ dangerous _ as run a hundred metre dash around the gym at Cleaves Mills High.

The drive home isn’t what gets him caught. Of course not. It just gave him a dose of that _ feeling, _ that indescribable high of being so close to his friends after so long spent apart, enough to make him want to chase it.

What he gets _ caught _ for is this: Richie wants to chase it, too. 

Richie probably wants to talk about why the hell Eddie’s been so closed-off, why he all but abandoned them, why he seems to be under the impression that he can’t just _ talk _ to them (he can’t because he knows that he’s too easily persuaded, that he _ wants _ to be persuaded, and it will only end poorly for all of them if they talk him into ignoring his mother’s wishes -- threats -- and spending too much time with them, anyway). 

He sure doesn’t hesitate to slide Eddie’s bedroom window open just as the sun starts setting, the prickle of wood-splinters digging into his fingertips (the way the sensation travels straight through to Eddie, who’s in the middle of changing into his pyjamas and who hisses from the sudden pain) the first tip-off that he’s _ up _ to something before Eddie does a double-take and realizes that, yes, Richie _ is _ prying his window open and climbing inside his house, and he’s about to protest, about to get real fucking indignant about _ that, _ but then he’s being dragged into a hug so tight it would probably hurt if it didn’t feel so goddamn good. He hugs back, half-buttoned pyjama shirt ignored in favour of soaking up as much physical contact with Richie _ (selfish, he knows) _ as he can. 

The point of Richie’s chin digs into the top of his head and he snaps out of it, whipping around to look at the door as if expecting his mother to already be there, having _ sensed _ the disturbance, somehow, but there’s nothing, and _ nothing _ is exactly what she’s going to fucking find when she _ does _ come to check on him. “What the fuck are you doing here? You can’t be here. You need to go,” he demands in a half-whisper, already bracing himself to shove Richie back towards the window, no matter how bad he doesn’t want to let go.

Richie grins and squishes the fat on Eddie’s cheek between his fingers, and Eddie doesn’t honestly know whether to be irritated, or relieved that Richie’s still pursuing their usual habits, their “normal,” despite Eddie’s sudden and quite rude disappearance from his daily life.

And, _ fuck, _ ** _shit,_ ** that’s right: if Sonia catches him here, Richie is dead fucking meat. There’s no good way to stop her calling the cops on him, especially not when he is _ actually _ trespassing and she has _ actual _ justifiable cause. 

Richie’s opening his mouth to answer, a smile dancing timidly on his lips, but he gets a glazed look in his eye and pauses instead, then shakes his head and thinks, _ ‘Just wanted to congratulate you on your win.’ _

_ ‘You did that already. Go home,’ _ Eddie hisses, shoving at his chest now, trying to get him back outside before things can go awry, but Richie remains resolutely rooted to the spot. 

_ ‘I know. That was kind of a lie. I miss hanging out, and you aren’t answering calls lately,’ _ he taps the side of his head and winks, _ ‘so I figured I’d just let you know in person that you can tell me if something’s wrong, or if…’ _ Here he trails off and takes a deep breath, teeth digging into his bottom lip. “If you’re mad at me for something. You can talk to me, Eds, y’know? Nothing is off-limits.” And that’s so heartfelt (Eddie knows not only because he sounds like it, but because he can _ feel _ the sincerity like a pulse in his own throat), that it actually startles a giggle out of him when he adds, with a playful waggle of his untrimmed eyebrows, “Even the nasty stuff. The stuff we have to hide from Bev to protect her innocence. I’m a treasure trove of tips on how to jerk off, and I’ve been told I give great advice.”

Eddie’s stifling his laughter behind one hand while he gently smacks at Richie’s chest with the other. “Shut up, oh my God! You’re so fucking gross,” he says as quietly as he can manage. “You know that’s not true; you give shit advice. And Bev is far from fucking _ innocent.” _

“Sure she is. All girls are innocent angels, didn’t you know? Incapable of doing wrong, and all that jazz.” He’s so clearly fighting a smile (Bev is the least innocent of them all, he’s willing to bet, mostly because she’s _ smarter _ than them all) that the feeling jumps right across to Eddie and he can’t stop the corners of his lips from curling up again. He crosses his arms over his chest and raises an eyebrow at him, pretends he isn’t trying not to laugh, and Richie finally relents, grinning like this is the highlight of his fucking day, “Yeah, she’s definitely not innocent, like, at _ all, _ and she’s definitely _ well aware _ of what we get up to in our free time. It’s _ Ben _whose innocence needs protecting.”

Eddie’s got that light, _ warm _ feeling that only exists in close proximity with Richie simmering in his chest for the first time in _ months, _ and he’s so caught up in it that he lets himself get dragged right into Richie’s bullshit -- which is his favourite kind of bullshit to be dragged into, because they’re on the same wavelength and they never have to pull their punches around each other. “That’s what _ you _ get up to in your free time. Don’t lump me in with you. I’m not a fucking heathen.” _ And I don’t want to get sick, _ and though he isn’t entirely convinced of the actual veracity of that tale, he hasn’t found the courage yet to look at _ those _ kinds of books at the public library to form an opinion of his own. He’s not going to risk it, regardless.

Besides, if his mom ever caught him, and she would, because she has awful timing like that, he’d be in _ so much fucking trouble. _

Just like he’d be in trouble for _ this, _ or at least _ Richie _ would, but he doesn’t want to linger long on that notion because he’s half-drunk on just being this close to Richie twice in one day, and _ Jesus, _ is this really what love feels like? Is that really what this is? It’s intoxicating. He wants Richie’s fingers playing with his hair _ yesterday, _ and he just barely manages to smother a fantasy about kissing him, about being alone in their underground clubhouse and Richie pulling a joint away from his lips to lean into Eddie’s space, lips only centimetres apart--

He’s leaning forward without really being aware of it, just trying to be as close as possible in the few moments he’s going to allow Richie to stand here before he puts his foot down and _ insists _ he leave before one or both of them gets in trouble, and _ no, _ he can’t explain why (Richie would talk him out of listening to his mother faster than he could say _ “yowza,” _ and that would just end badly for all involved parties, and the fact of the matter is that he’s just going to have to grin and bear it until she gets over his latest rebellious outburst and accepts one of his many long-winded apologies regarding the incident). 

Richie raises a hand, and Eddie’s thinking _ yes yes yes you read my mind, please put your hands in my hair, or even just pinch my cheek more, or just hug me again, please, _ and God is he ever fucking desperate; that’s _ hardly _ an appropriate way to think of one of your closest friends (especially not one of your closest friends who will definitely never reciprocate those kind of feelings and, if anything, will be _ grossed the fuck out _ by them). 

The door slams open somewhere behind him and he jumps about a mile into the air, making an embarrassing squeaking sound as he spins on his heel and stumbles backwards into Richie, who barely composes himself in time to catch him. “Oh, hey, Mrs. K,” he starts, the nervous tremor to his voice evident as Eddie backs up even closer against him, stunned into silence.

“Do_ not _ start with me,” Sonia Kaspbrak hisses at him. His jaw snaps shut with an audible _ clack. _ “You get the hell away from my son. You are _ done _ corrupting him, you hear me? He’s a good boy and he doesn’t need your God-damned _ sinful influences _ turning him into some… some… _ sick _ little _ deviant. _ You _ hear me? _ ” she demands again, and for once in his life Richie isn’t even _ trying _ to act like a fucking doofus around her. 

_ ‘I am going to run away now,’ _ Richie says inside his head, but there’s an undercurrent of hesitation to it, and Eddie senses the hand reaching out to grab him, senses Richie contemplating dragging him along, but as much as he would love that, he _ can’t. _ Because he’s got to stay here and talk her out of getting Richie into serious fucking trouble, because he’s an _ idiot _ for letting Richie stick around this long and _ Richie _ is an idiot for sneaking in here in the first place (he’s not entirely ungrateful, but he’s brimming with regret, so he can’t be one hundred percent happy with Richie’s choices right now). 

_ ‘Go. It’s fine,’ _ Eddie tells him, even though it is most assuredly _ not. _

He jabs an elbow back towards Richie’s stomach for good measure when he continues to hesitate, and the red cloud of anger billowing around his mom continues to grow as she heaves and sweats and grinds her teeth, glowering, concentrated hatred, at Richie. He gets the message and slinks away, folding himself through the too-small frame of the window, casting an,_ ‘I’m sorry,’ _ behind him as he goes. 

Eddie can feel where his guilt hangs, right in the middle of his stomach, leaden and nauseating, but he doesn’t have time to assure him that there’s nothing to feel guilty about (a lie, but a necessary one) before his mom’s hand is clamping over his forearm like a vice and he’s being dragged from the room, down the hall, resisting the whole way. “Mom, wait, I’m sorry, I didn’t-- he didn’t--” _ He doesn’t have a good enough lie lined up. _ He fumbles as he’s marched through the house and settles on, “I asked him to come by and pick up a tape I forgot I borrowed, that’s all.”

Sonia stops walking and rounds on him; all that anger that had been directed at Richie turns on him in a second. “And sneak in through your window?”

“He was just--”

“What were you doing with him, Eddie? How many times have I told you to _ stay away from him. _ I don’t want you to end up like him!” Sweat is glistening on her upper lip and she’s gnashing her teeth as she leans down into his space, still gripping his arm tightly, and he whimpers pitifully before he can stop himself.

“Please don’t call the cops on him, mommy, _ please. _ It won’t happen again, I swear.” 

The tears shining in his eyes are probably a nice touch to the frantic, pleading look on his face, because she visibly softens and asks, “And has it happened _ before?” _

He shakes his head, and it isn’t technically a lie, because this is the first time Richie has been bold enough to climb in his window since the start of his most recent ban on seeing his friends. 

“Okay.” Her free hand flutters over his face as if planning to wipe away the silent tears gathering on his cheeks, but she draws back after a moment. “Alright. I won’t do it this time, if you promise to listen to me right now. Will you do that? Will you listen and do what I tell you?”

This time he nods, and then he’s being dragged again, pulled a few more steps down the hall and into the washroom, and bit by bit his body goes tense and anxious. He’s felt, for the last several weeks, like he’s _ constantly _ on the precipice of _ snapping _ and-- and-- he doesn’t even _ know _ what. Having some kind of tantrum, the kind where he throws himself on the floor and _ screams _ his lungs bloody, or worse -- running away from home without giving it enough thought to talk himself out of it, hiding away at one Loser’s house or another, just to be around them again, just to show his mom she can’t control him, not all the time, not like this. 

Whatever she’s planning, he fears it might push him over the edge. He hopes it doesn’t, because the consequences of snapping are sure to be much, much worse than this, whatever _ this _ is shaping up to be. 

“Wait here,” she tells him, as he’s shaking where he stands, eyeing the tub warily, too busy talking himself out of the idea of running away from home to acknowledge her. So she _ makes _ him; grabs his chin (his whole jaw) in her fat hand, too tight, and forces his face up to look right at her. “Will you do that? Will you listen, or am I filing a report about one of your delinquent friends trespassing on my property, and putting his filthy faggot hands on you?”

“I’ll listen,” he wheezes, and then she’s gone and he feels all-over cold, and he can’t tell anymore if he’s shaking from fear or just _ shivering, _ despite the heat in the house being cranked to prevent him from developing any health problems -- as his mother always insists he’s _ delicate, _ and that being cold will make him deathly ill. It’s why he has so many sets of fleece-and-flannel pyjamas, and… oh, _ motherfucker. _ He hastily does up the last few buttons on his shirt, since he’d been interrupted in the middle of dressing, even though he’s _ positive _ it’s too late and his mother has already noticed (that’s probably part of the reason she’s so mad). There’s no plausible way for him to talk himself out of this one without sounding like he’s floundering for desperate excuses. 

As if he’d had any hope in the first place.

When she returns with a wretchedly familiar brown glass bottle in one hand, and an even-more-familiar shoebox tucked under her arm, he tenses with the intention to bolt. 

_ Listen, _ he argues with himself. _ Stay here. The alternative is worse. _

She hands him the shoebox and he takes it with trembling hands. “Open it.”

_ Listen. _

He does. It’s the very same one he keeps hidden under his bed, and all his photos of his friends are still there, still intact, which is something of a relief, but there are three paper-clipped bundles sitting on top of all the others. His heart climbs into his throat and settles there. She’d have to have snooped through them _ all _ to sort out every picture of Richie from the rest, and she has to have done it _ recently, _ because last time he opened this box to flip through all the pictures was barely a month ago. 

“What…?” And then it all falls into place like he’s experiencing it in slow motion, and he’s shaking his head and snapping the box shut before he’s even finished processing what, precisely, it is that she’s planning to do to him. _ “No.” _

“You have a choice, Eddie-bear. I’m not going to force you to do anything. You can decide for yourself.” _ Him, or you. _ The cops showing up at his door, or Eddie spending a few hours puking his guts out, made to stare at pictures of his best damn friend who he never meant to love so much all the while. She holds the ipecac syrup out to him like a peace offering.

A shudder crawls through him as he takes it. 

“Drink,” she says, so he _ listens; _ uncaps the bottle and takes a sip, grimacing at the bitter taste that floods his senses, and he thinks of his friends and how he’ll have to fight with himself for the next few hours to keep this away from them. He has to stop them from feeling it, because that isn’t fair to them. They have their own problems to deal with. Their own families with their own issues. It’s not fair for Eddie to subject them to _ his _ crap on top of it. “All of it,” Sonia snaps when he tips the bottle away from his mouth, and already his stomach is turning but he plugs his nose to inhibit the godawful taste as he forces himself to swallow down the entire contents of the bottle.

He kneels beside the toilet with little coaxing on his mother’s part, already constructing blockades to keep the Losers from feeling how he’s about to feel as he goes. _ Not fair to them. _ This always fucking _ sucks _ and they don’t need to experience just _ how much _ it sucks right alongside him, no, sir. 

Sonia unclips one of the bundles of photos, pulling up that stool again to sit across from him as she shuffles through them. She makes _ faces _ as she goes, purses her lips and furrows her eyebrows and _ scowls, _ scoffing and rolling her eyes all the way. “There’s something wrong with you, Eddie,” she says, an accusation he’s heard so often it’s lost its edge by now. “Just like there’s something wrong with this boy. It’s disgusting that you let him put his hands all over you like that. Don’t you know any better?”

“He’s my friend,” Eddie tries to defend, that now-familiar swollen feeling high in his stomach, inching up into his chest, forcing a weak and wheezing exhalation from him at the end. The muscles in his back roll and contract, anticipation heavy across his skin, which is _ crawling. _ Gooseflesh erupts along his arms and he latches onto the side of the toilet bowl as a tiny, foul-tasting burp rolls out of him, unable to bring himself to care about _ how filthy toilets are, how many germs live in washrooms, how the floor alone is probably-- _

“It’s things like this,” his mom says suddenly, sliding a photo from the stack and holding it up so close to his face it overtakes his entire field of vision, “That make it _ obvious.” _ His discomfort fizzles out into a white-hot hatred (the force of which is nearly enough to shock him into forgetting how _ sick _ he feels) when he registers what he’s looking at. It’s from the photo booth at the Canal Days Festival last summer, all of the Losers crammed into the small space, toes being stepped on, limbs tangled, bodies pressed up too close, but not so much for them. It hadn’t been uncomfortable. 

They’re too accustomed to each other.

Eddie remembers having that realization right there in the booth, sweaty from the summer sun and dizzy from too many rides in a row, the seven of them fresh off the Devil Dish and in need of a break (he remembers being strapped into the ride and _ screaming, _ afraid but in a good way, and the feeling of Richie’s hand clamped around his on one side and Ben’s on the other, as they swung through the air, feet dangling, death seeming a whisker away but unable to reach them). He likes to take this picture, in particular, out of the shoebox to admire. It’s lined with the scent of sunshine and kettle corn and coloured in with the memories of a whole day out with his friends, sharing snow cones and risking their lives on rides that almost made them piss their pants, with laughter _ and _ with fear. 

He likes this picture _ especially _ because he’s got this _ idea _ in his head, about the way it feels to hold Richie’s hand and how he’s never thought about a girl even _ close _ to the way he’s thought about boys (even if he _ is _ afraid to act on the adolescent urges that come hand-in-hand with those thoughts -- he still _ has _ them, and that’s plenty telling). He’s wasted hours and hours staring at this picture and daydreaming because he’s created this fantasy where that look on Richie’s face _ means _ something. He’s not _ stupid; _ he knows the camera had just gone off before Richie was prepared. Bill had said, _ “Eh-everyone make a stupid face!” _ and they’d all happily obliged. Bev did that thing that freaks them all out where she flips her top eyelid so you can see the pink underneath. Bill had grabbed Stan’s cheeks from behind and stretched them into a forced smile, his own chin resting on Stan’s shoulder as he went cross-eyed and poked his tongue out the side of his open mouth. Mike’s captured image has his hands planted on his cheeks, eyes rolled back as he pretends to scream. Eddie had puffed up his cheeks like a chipmunk’s, eyes bright and laughing. Ben went for the classic, hooking his fingers on the sides of his mouth and sticking his tongue out as he pulled his lips back from his teeth.

Richie, the person who would have really knocked that one out of the park (he’s almost as good at making stupid faces as he is at making up dumb Voices) happened to be the only one who missed out on it, despite a three-second timer giving them a countdown before the flash. He must have been just turning towards the camera, or had otherwise been sidetracked by something happening in the booth, because his eyes aren’t directed at the camera, but are just passing over Eddie. 

And the _ reason _ Eddie treasures this photo above almost any other (even though they each left the booth that day with a small handful of photo-strips, so it isn’t as if it’s the only one he has) is that Richie has this _ look _ on his face, one Eddie would otherwise think him incapable of. He knows, of course, that this expression was only captured because it fell somewhere in the transition between his usual big, goofy grin and whatever _ goofier _ face he was about to pull. But every time he looks at it, he falls into the trap of imagining such a _ soft _ look directed at _ him, _ of all people. Of the subtle curve of his full lips and the slight downward slant of his eyebrows, the way all the sharp angles he’s growing into were softened, like all the tension was melting out of him, and the way his eyes had been bright even without the light from the camera, had all been because Richie was looking at _ him. _ Like _ he caused that. _

It’s just a _ transitional expression, _ just a fluke that the camera managed to catch, a stop on the journey from point A to point B, and it doesn’t _ mean _ anything. Eddie’s wishful thinking is what gives it meaning. Eddie can sit and stare at this photo, and this photo alone, for an hour or more, thinking all the while, _ ‘What if he really _ ** _did_ ** _ look at me that way? What if he ever did something like that _ ** _intentionally?_ ** _ What if he’d been thinking of a dumb face to make, to out-dumb the rest of us, and he’d stopped to look at _ ** _me?_ ** _ And what had he thought, then, to make his face go all tender like that?’ _ But, of course, it’s a fluke, that’s all it’s ever been, and he’s a damn fool to let himself imagine anything to the contrary.

He just can’t fucking help it.

His mom is right: there’s always been something wrong with him. He’s _ completely _ fucked, and if he ever lets anyone get a clue about the way he thinks about boys (the way he thinks about Richie, and the way he wishes Richie would stare at him, and how he’s altogether just _ gone _ for one boy in particular, who dresses ugly and wears hideous nail polish and makes him laugh until his ribs ache) he’d be even more fucked. He’s read the graffiti on the Kissing Bridge. He’s read the stuff carved into the benches at Bassey Park. He’s had Victor Criss come after him for just a _ suspicion, _ and Henry Bowers before that. He’s had insults hurled about him for the way he walks and talks, the way he _ acts _ \-- hell, even the way he _ looks _\-- long before he ever understood the intent behind them.

He’s not planning to feed into whatever rumours Derry has invented about him, true or not, just the same as Bev wouldn’t. He’s not going to give them any more reason to hurt him -- do the things they threaten in their vandalism, like drive nails into his eyes or burn him alive. His mom’s _ right. _ He _ is _ a homo -- a _ fagola, _ as Bowers would have said -- but he doesn’t have any fucking intention to _ act _ on it, no matter how bad he wants (and he _ wants to, _ so bad it’s almost painful, so bad he could barely control himself around Richie just minutes ago), because he’s got a sense of fucking self-preservation. She can keep trying to fix that (and she _ does _ try) but he doesn’t think he’s any more capable of changing than the stars in the sky are capable of rearranging themselves. 

As he thinks this, there’s a final, caustic release of pressure in his abdomen, where it’s been mounting painfully (and quickly) in the few moments he’s been staring, unblinking, at the image before him. He’s still staring, even as he opens his mouth and that _ burning _ rushes up to splash into the toilet bowl.

“That’s better, right?” she asks, though she knows damn well it isn’t. Maybe if he’d only drank a couple sips, it would be over _ soon, _ but he didn’t, and he knows he’s in _ huge fucking trouble _ but he’s beginning to think he’d literally rather _ die _ than have to go through this kind of punishment again, or this-- this _ “fixing him” _ thing, whatever she wants this to accomplish. All it ever really does is make him miserable and in pain and _ pissed off _ at her, sometimes for _ days. _

It isn’t fucking _ better. _ That hot, bloated feeling in his gut only grows. He imagines that if he were to lift his shirt up right now he’d see distended, purpling skin over his abdomen; that’s how it feels, at least. And he gets _ more _ pissed, because it’s a _ fucking unnecessary _ amount of the drug to put into his system and she does this _ on purpose _ to get her point across.

She _ has, _ though! She fucking _ has! _ He’s barely interacted with any of the Losers in months, going so far as to avoid seeing them too often at school, because he _ got the fucking message last time. _ If he’s good, and if he puts his head down and listens like a good boy for a while, she’ll relent, and she’ll give him back some of his freedoms, because, fuck it all, she’s _ right. _ He’s a terrible fucking son and she doesn’t deserve the way he treats her, but you know what?

He doesn’t think he deserves stuff like _ this, _ either.

It isn’t _ his fault _ Richie was in his room. It isn’t _ his fault _ this is happening. 

She switches out the picture she’s dangling in front of him for another, a lone shot of Richie grinning at the camera. His cheeks are red and splotchy from the cold, and the image itself is a little blurry, but not enough to obscure the megawatt smile on his face. He’s all teeth and bright eyes; raw, red nose; damp hair from melting snow. There’s the sad remains of a snowball spattered across the side of his toque and dripping into his hair. 

Eddie vomits again, hot and thick. The discomfort doesn’t abate, but grows somehow worse. The first few tears run down his cheeks.

_ (he hates the hospital hates it hates it hates the delirium from whatever drugs they give him and the living nightmares they conjure up, hates listening to his mother scream at doctors, hates the strange hands of nurses touching him without his permission, but not as much as he hates the strange hands of his _ ** _mother_ ** _ prodding and coddling and invading his space) _

_ (but he almost thinks he wishes he was there so they could make this feeling go away) _

“I wish we didn’t have to have these lessons so often, Eddie. I wish you had just learned by now.”

A Polaroid, taken at the quarry on a mild summer day. Richie is draped over a flat rock, feet propped up, one hand behind his head. He’d been trying to look cool, probably, so mostly he’d looked dorky. With his other hand, he’s pressing a cigarette between his lips and inhaling, his cheeks hollowing around it as he stares up at the sky. And Eddie recalls, clearly, that a few moments later he’d turned his head and shot a wink in their direction, but he’d also stuck his tongue out, and it had made him laugh. Though Richie hadn’t done that before Bev had snapped the picture, shaken it out after it developed, and slipped it directly into Eddie’s hands.

Probably to give to Richie later, he’d figured, and then he hadn’t done that at all, and instead had stuck it in the front pocket of his overalls and brought it home with him.

Everyone gathered in a circle on the clubhouse floor, playing Spoons. Richie is across from whoever took the photo, lying on his stomach, his feet kicked up in the air behind him, crossed at the ankles. He’s in the middle of reaching out to snatch up one of the twigs they substituted for spoons (since they were in the middle of the Barrens and all), half his body a blur of motion, like everyone else in the picture. 

A photo from before the Losers’ Club had actually _ been _ the Losers’ Club -- before _ any of it. _ They’re still soft-cheeked, the four of them crammed onto the piano bench at Bill’s house while Bill tries to teach them to play _ F__ür _ _ Elise _ (“I wanna learn _ Yakety Sax,” _ Richie had said, squirming on the bench where he was trapped between Eddie and Stan. “Teach me that one instead.”)

Richie holding Buttercup up to the camera, and it’s almost like she’s smiling, too. Their cheeks are pressed together and Buttercup’s tongue is lolling out of her mouth and Eddie remembers snapping that photograph himself, remembers the enormity of the warmth filling him up while he kept telling Richie, “You’re not funny; that isn’t funny; stop it,” as Richie offered up increasingly ridiculous ‘B’ names for the poor dog, who they’d only decided maybe five minutes earlier to name Buttercup, and of _ course _ Richie wanted to teach her to respond to just _ any _ word starting with ‘B’: _ Banjo, Buttcheek, Bolivia, Byron, Boner, Bananarama, Bermuda. _ Eddie had been prone on the ground, clutching his stomach, by the time Richie finally gave up (only because he was _ also _ laughing too hard to continue).

Another Polaroid, though he can’t say for sure who took this one, only that he’d gone home the morning after their most recent Halloween party to a silent treatment from his mom (who was still upset that he’d chosen to go out at all on the most dangerous night of the year -- in her opinion -- let alone with those _ awful _ kids he called “friends”) and a picture tucked into the pocket of his backpack. It had fallen out while he was unpacking, and he’d only been able to stare at it in awe for a few seconds before snapping back to reality and rushing to tuck it into the shoebox for safekeeping _ (so much for that). _ It wasn’t even a _ flattering _ picture of them -- they were both clearly dead-asleep, faces lax, Eddie even drooling a bit. But it had done _ something _ in his heart, something too-warm, to look at a picture of him and Richie wrapped around each other like that, like they’d merged into one being, Richie’s arm looped across Eddie’s chest, holding him close against him even in sleep, Eddie’s hands curled around his wrist like he was holding him in place, too. 

(There was a word for the way it _ felt _ to look at it that Eddie didn’t quite have the capacity to name, but if he’d thought longer about it, “intimate” would certainly have come to mind.)

He feels, after retching and gagging over the toilet for what must have been a lifetime, that all his strength has simply seeped right out of his body, and he’s surprised when the slideshow of pictures he’s been glaring defiantly at disappears, and his mom’s hands slip under his armpits to hold him upright. He tries to ask her what she’s doing, but when he opens his mouth he vomits again, muscles seizing horribly, and finds the answer for himself. 

He’s starting to go limp, involuntarily of course, and as he’s no longer able to support his own weight, she’s holding him in place. Probably to prevent him from soiling the floor, since she’d have no choice but to clean it up herself. They know from experience that Eddie’s going to be out of commission for a minimum of twenty-four hours after this, between the soreness, the general weakness, the dehydration, and the residual nausea that prevents him from actually ingesting anything to _ help _ with the weakness or the dehydration. 

“Poor thing,” she murmurs, tiny eyes watering, brushing his sweaty hair from his forehead as she supports practically his whole weight with the other. “My poor baby. I hate to see you like this. It hurts me so much, Eddie-bear.”

Eddie pukes again. His head is starting to go fuzzy, ears ringing. There’s sticky vomit coating his chin and dripping onto his chest and he can’t find it in himself to give a shit. Can’t even find the strength to lean forward and aim for the bowl, at this point. The bloated discomfort remains a steady presence in his stomach, no matter how many times he pukes. 

“This wouldn’t happen if that boy would just leave you alone, you know.” Her hands -- pressed to his ribs, touching his forehead, his cheeks, his neck -- only add to the uncomfortable and tight feeling prickling across his skin. He wants to go to sleep so he doesn’t have to go through this anymore, but sleep seems impossible when his whole body is lit up with aches and pains that keep fading in and out of focus, like he’s just one open, pulsing wound from head to toe. The muscles in his back and shoulders spasming, the churning in his stomach, the interminable pressure where his knees have been digging into the linoleum floor for who-knows-how-long. His mouth feels as if it’s coated in sludge (he supposes it technically is) and he can tell already his throat will be raw for days to come. He really does think he’d rather be dead than have to live through another second like this. “This is his fault. It’s his fault for not leaving you alone, Eddie. You know that, right?” The jagged edge of one of her nails scrapes over his forehead as she smooths back his hair again. “He did this to you. Coming into your room like that, as if we wouldn’t know his intent. But we know, right? We know something is wrong with him, don’t we, Eddie? He knows it, too. He knows what he did to you by coming here. He knows what happens to boys like him when they don’t follow their mother’s advice, and he came here anyway, and he ruined it for you, didn’t he? He’s ruining you.”

Eddie would… Eddie would _ kill _ to just be lying down right now, is really all his brain _ wants _ to process. His head spins and all he can picture is Richie’s face in his photographs (the photos he _ hid from his mom; _ the photos she found anyway), and Richie clambering awkwardly through the window, and not listening when Eddie told him to go, told him _ he couldn’t be here, _ and look where that got him. 

Richie is at home listening to quiet music, oblivious to Eddie’s plight -- oblivious to the fact that it’s _ his fault _ Eddie’s in trouble. 

He wants to lie on the floor and press his face to the cold linoleum and if he manages to spew sticky, brown bile all over the place in the process, then so be it. He is literally at a point where he could not care less about lying in his own sick, if it means he can just _ please fucking lie down, please. _

“Look what he did to you.”

Is it always this bad? He’s not sure if he feels the _ usual _ amount of terrible that he does during these incidents or if this is a _ new _ kind of terrible. Does he think that every time? Does every time just seem worse, somehow, than the last, because he works so hard to forget it immediately afterwards? Forget the _ feeling, _ not the lesson. The lesson tries to stick, of course, like stubborn swathes of Red Cross tape to the skin around a wound. Maybe because he already _ knew _ the lesson before she ever got started on disciplining him for it -- knew he was different from other boys his age in ways beyond his control, so when she tries to remind him that that’s _ wrong _ or that it’s _ sinful _ or that, worst of all, it’s _ dangerous, _ it gets plastered down around the wound that he already knew was there and just makes it _ more conspicuous. _

“Look how you’re hurting. Why would he do this to you?”

Eddie isn’t familiar with _ death, _ not personally, but he’d bet any money he’s getting damn close to meeting her. Or he’s being melodramatic, and in a few hours he’s going to tell himself _ it wasn’t even that bad, you stupid pussy, and you deserved it anyway for not making Richie leave while you had the chance, _ or better, _ you deserved it anyway for being a filthy homo and for not doing anything to fix it. _

He thinks if he’s still alive in a few hours, that’s how the conversation with himself will go, behind cemented-up barriers between him and the other people who can sometimes see inside his head and who he knows wouldn’t like it in there anymore than his mom would. He thinks that’s how it usually goes on days like today. 

“He should know better.”

Every time he thinks _ maybe _ he’s almost asleep (every time his eyes slip closed and he sees all those pictures again, Richie and the other Losers but _ Richie _ most prominently, just like she wanted), there’s another excruciating convulsion, a spasm all through him like the muscles in his abdomen shredding and his ribs grating against each other, and he’s forced to wake up just enough to experience the fucking _ joy _ of vomiting _ again. _ And again. 

And again.

“This is all his fault, isn’t it?”

Her hands are all over him, invasive, rubbing over his clammy skin, trying to soothe the tremors that rake up and down his spine but only succeeding in making them worse. He’s dizzy. The room seems to be underwater whenever he opens his eyes. He’s long given up speaking, but he doesn’t have the strength to lift his arms to push her away, make her _ go away, _ make her _ stop touching him, _ so without the words needed to make it stop, he shudders until his eyes roll and pukes more.

_ “This is all his fault.” _

Keeping everyone out (or, more accurately, keeping himself _ in) _ when it comes to matters concerning their strange telepathic gift has become second nature for him. He manages to be amazed, still, when he gives a mental nudge and finds everything in order, all boarded up like it should be, so nothing spills out any cracks. Even in spite of his weariness -- physical _ and _ mental, he’s still managing _ that _ much, and he maybe feels a delirious little smile alighting at the thought. 

No one else has to feel the way he does right now, not like that one time on his birthday when he got sick like this and poor Richie had--

_ “This is all _ ** _his_ ** _ fault.” _

He cracks an eye open, not sure what he’s hoping to find, but disappointed to learn he’s still in the washroom, as if the ache in his knees, still taking most of his weight, wasn’t a clear enough indication. He’s not sure how long he’s been in here, maybe only twenty minutes or maybe the whole night. The room swims.

_ “All his fault.” _

Eddie wakes with a start, and _ regrets _ being awake immediately. He’d probably feel a hell of a lot better if he’d been hit by an eighteen-wheeler going eighty than he does right now, sweat-soaked under the covers in his own bed, whole body smarting like one giant bruise. Not to mention the _ headache, _ and the voice that woke him up and seems determined to make that headache _ worse. _

_ ‘--rry if you are, but I can’t ever tell when you’re sleeping anymore, I dunno if you know that. It’s like, impossible to tell now, or even if you can hear me at all, but I like to assume you probably can’t or otherwise you’d answer me, right? But anyways, I was--’ _

_ ‘Richie.’ _

Eddie can’t see him but he still sees his face light up like it does when he gets stupidly excited about something. _ ‘Eddie! You _ ** _are_ ** _ awake!’ _

Somehow he manages to lack volume control even _ inside his head, _ in the middle of the fucking night, and Eddie’s brain is on _ fire _ right now -- he can feel every pulse of his heart reverberating through his skull and his eyes are already watering from the pain of it. _ ‘I am now.’ _

_ ‘I wanted to make sure you were alright. I didn’t get you in trouble, did I? Your mom knows that was, like, one hundred percent my fault, right?’ _

Eddie doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know _ what _ to say. His head _ hurts, _ though no worse than the _ entire rest of him. _ There’s something that isn’t vomit creeping up his throat, red-hot, almost like the prickling burn of tears threatening to form, but _ worse. _ Something that tastes heavily like anger, like iron rust, like molten glass. 

He doesn’t want to be _ angry. _ Not for _ real, _ not the kind that seizes you in a paroxysm of rage and makes you say things you don’t mean (or maybe you do) and that you aren’t supposed to ever feel towards your best friends. Not like that.

So he doesn’t say anything, and Richie presses on, getting louder, faster, more frantic with each passing beat of silence on Eddie’s part, until he’s told him maybe a dozen times how sorry he is and how he hopes he isn’t in too much trouble, hopes he isn’t “grounded until he’s fifty.” How it’s _ all his fault _ and he’ll never do it again, swear on his life, cross his heart and hope to die, and Eddie has the terrifying, bitter thought that _ yes, it _ ** _is._ **

The tears building behind his eyes aren’t just a result of the headache anymore. _ ‘I’m fine,’ _ he tells Richie firmly, if only to shut him up, and then he doesn’t say anything else for a long, long time. 

It shouldn’t come as a surprise when he drags himself to the washroom at some point the next day and finds his photographs still scattered on the floor where Sonia had dropped them. The box is propped open against the wall, the stool she sat on beside it. Most of his pictures are still in the box, but _ of course _ she hadn’t thought to pick up the ones she’d been holding before he came too close to fainting for her liking. A couple of them are slightly bent where it looks like someone stepped on them.

He sighs, easing himself down onto his knees so he can gather them up. It’s a difficult task when he’s still feeling as if he’s on the brink of death, arms weak at best, but it’s only made more difficult by the way nausea curls in his gut every time he looks at any of the pictures for too long. 

He’s just closing up the box to carry it back to his room when Bev’s voice in his head startles him, _ close, _ like if she were really with him she’d have invaded his personal space and would be speaking right into his ear. _ ‘Eddie?’ _ she says, tentative but still loud, as if she’s shouting through the barrier he’s hiding behind.

_ ‘Bev?’ _

Silence. Bev doesn’t operate on emotions like some of the rest of them, but he’d have to be stupid not to pick up on the pensive anxiety rolling off of her. She’s probably got a cigarette clenched between her teeth, something she tries to save for when she’s nervous or stressed nowadays, she tells them, since Eddie is so dead-set on preventing any of them from developing lung cancer and she’d _ ‘hate to become a statistic.’ _

Then she asks, much too carefully, _ ‘Are you alright, Eddie? I’m not sure if…’ _ She trails off and Eddie’s shoulders go stiff, ‘cause there’s only one reason he can think of that she’d be asking right now. Maybe he didn’t do such a good job keeping that away from them, after all. 

_ ‘I’m so sorry,’ _ he rushes to say. _ ‘Bev, I’m so sorry if you had to feel that. I was really sick yesterday, I’m so sorry -- I thought I was stopping it from getting out to you guys. I didn’t want anyone else to feel sick, too.’ _

Bev pauses before she can start on whatever else she was about to say, and instead she thinks, _ ‘Oh,’ _ very abruptly, and then a second, much slower, ** _‘...Oh.’_ **

Then she’s laughing, like some kind of delightful news has just been delivered to her, and not necessarily like anything about this is _ funny. _ Just that maybe it’s good Eddie was sick yesterday (better sick than something _ worse) _ or maybe she’s glad he’s doing better now. _ ‘Okay, I thought… but if you were _ ** _sick,_ ** _ that makes a lot of sense, actually, I--’ _ But here she cuts herself off again, stops laughing in that way that Eddie can _ hear _ even several cities away, and asks, all bright and full of charm like she always is (that ineluctable _ draw _ that’s unique to her), _ ‘How have you been, Eddie? Are you feeling alright today? I miss hanging out with you guys.’ _

They discuss plans to go to a roller rink that just opened up in Bangor, once Bev is around during the summer months and they’ve got nothing better to do with their time. Eddie figures that if his mom has forgiven him by then he’d be more than happy to go, if only to spend time with Bev, who is so full of light that even from a distance she makes it feel like his various pains are fading faster.

Two days later, when he feels well enough to leave the house again, the first thing he does (and it’s stupid, probably, since he doesn’t stand a chance of defending himself against Criss or Huggins, should he encounter them) is go to the clubhouse, all by himself. It isn’t so much that no one is available to accompany him, as it is that he doesn’t _ want _ anyone to accompany him. Not right now. Not until he feels better, and he can look at them without feeling sick to his stomach. 

(He does not, fortunately, encounter Criss or Huggins.)

He takes that shoebox of every photograph he’s ever treasured in his life, and he forces his sluggish body to make the trek through the Barrens, and when he gets where he’s going, he clears a spot at the bottom of the dusty old bookshelf and hides them there, where his mom will never, ever find them.

* * *


	31. Richie's worst birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Father-son bonding and poor (or maybe not-so-poor) choices while car shopping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey did you know there's actually no Chuck E Cheese in Maine? Wild.

* * *

March 1993

* * *

This is, hands down, the worst birthday of Richie’s entire life, and that’s counting the time he peed his pants at the Chuck E Cheese in Bangor,  _ and _ the year his parents were so busy they forgot until the day of, and then just handed him some cash and told him to order in (no cake or anything, like, seriously, what the hell?)

This one sucks the  _ most. _ This birthday sucks the  _ biggest _ balls, and he’ll swear that on his life.

His dad sighs and sets down his cutlery. It’s been quiet at their booth, which is considered a miracle by Tozier standards, and throughout their entire breakfast it’s just been them and the din of the restaurant and the scraping of knives against plates. “Alright, talk to me.”

“About what?” Richie asks sullenly, prodding at a piece of scrambled egg with his fork instead of eating it. Okay, maybe he  _ does _ know what his dad wants to talk about, and maybe he’s  _ aware _ he’s been acting like a moody teenager for the past week, but you know what? He  _ is _ a teenager, so he is  _ well within his rights _ to act a little bit moody once in a while.

“Whatever’s got you so down.” Yup, there it is.

Under better circumstances, he absolutely would. Wentworth Tozier is nothing if not great with advice, and a master problem-solver. 

Richie’s just positive, though, that there’s no way to explain how broken up he is about everything happening with Eddie without explaining…  _ everything. _

And, like, mentally? He is not prepared for that. His  _ dad _ is probably not prepared for that.

“It’s nothing.” He stabs the egg. He doesn’t eat it, just twirls it around on his fork a bit, and the whole time he can feel his dad staring him down across the table, and he’s trying not to look so mopey or whatever but he really can’t help it. 

“Is it girl trouble?” he asks, much softer, and Richie barely suppresses a snort.

No, it sure the fuck is  _ not, _ but maybe his life would be easier if it was. Why can’t he drool after Bev, instead? That would make more sense (not to  _ him, _ but to everyone else, everyone who thinks boys should only kiss girls and people like him are going to burn in hell). No, he’s got to be the fucking weirdo who goes for the doe-eyed same-sex best friend with the most  _ kissable _ goddamn cheeks. 

Because his life isn’t  _ meant _ to be easy.

“No, dad, I’m not having  _ girl problems, _ are you kidding me?”

Wentworth flashes him a playful smile, eyes bright behind his horn-rimmed specs. “Well, with the way you talk, Richard, one can only assume…”

“We’re  _ not _ having the sex talk. Thank you for trying. Your efforts are not appreciated. Call again soon.”

“Fine, we won’t talk about the black cloud you’ve been living under all week, or whichever girl from school broke your heart, or any other normal father-son stuff.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ve got a better topic.” 

Except the way he says it is so  _ ominous, _ Richie finds himself immediately distrustful. Wentworth’s a clever bastard, somewhere on par with Bev, and that’s one of the few things Richie  _ didn’t _ inherit from him (that, and his eyes; Richie has his mom’s eyes). “And that would be...?”

Wentworth’s already wearing an apologetic smile as he says, “Those braces you’re so dead-set on not getting.”

“As a parent, your job is to wear down my self-esteem bit by bit until I am but a shell of a person. You’re doing a fabulous job of that, have I ever told you?” Richie can only avoid this conversation so many times before he snaps, of course, and his sarcasm is really only  _ half _ sarcastic by this point -- he appreciates that his parents haven’t  _ forced  _ him to get braces, the way Sally Mueller was back at the start of high school (she cried for days but they really weren’t so bad, and she barely had them for six months anyway). He keeps telling them no, and they keep respecting his wishes, which is good enough, but he’s also starting to notice more and more every time he looks in a mirror how much his front teeth  _ do _ stick out. 

It’s not a  _ good _ feeling, if anyone’s asking. No one’s called him Bucky Beaver in  _ years _ (Vic and Belch’s insults of choice mostly relate to his sexuality nowadays) but it still  _ hurt _ and he still isn’t totally recovered from it.

“I’m only trying to… make a proposal,” his dad tries. “A  _ deal, _ maybe we should call it.”

“A bribe?”

“Whatever sounds best to you.”

Richie doesn’t say anything for a bit. He takes a bite of his bland toast and chews it slowly, staring Wentworth down as he does so. He stares right back, but he’s been cursed with the same damn genes that make Richie such a goofy-looking creature, so mostly, in trying to look serious, he looks constipated -- and like he’s fighting a grin. They both know Richie’s insatiably curious nature will force him to break eventually, so rather than drag out the suspense until the end of their meal, he sighs and relents. “What kind of bribe?”

They’ve both adopted this  _ thing, _ this kind of game where one or both tries to be cool and suave and mysterious, which never actually pans out because they are people destined to be goofballs, so Wentworth sips his coffee idly and tries not to look excited while Richie finishes his toast and tries not to look interested. He thinks he’s managed this “bitchy teenager” thing quite well. Maybe better than Hannah, who liked to get into screaming matches with their mom over petty bullshit and act like she was just too cool for anything and everything. 

“Well,” Wentworth finally says, dragging out the single syllable well beyond its intended lifespan, “I’ve been thinking.”

“That’s a first.”

His dad snorts quietly into his coffee but composes himself easily enough, shooting Richie a  _ look _ that says  _ I know it’s my fault you’re like this but please refrain from turning it back on me. _ “You turn seventeen tomorrow.” 

“Sure do.”

“If things go well, you’ll be a fully-licensed driver by the end of next week.”

“God willing.”

Richie’s not going to pretend he doesn’t see where this is going by now, or that he can’t -- literally -- sense his dad’s mounting excitement, so he’s already grinning ear-to-ear by the time he finishes: “So what do you say you and I go look at some cars, see if anything catches your eye? We’ve got the whole day ahead of us and a full tank of gas, so we’ll check out a couple places outside Derry, maybe take a trip up to Bangor.”

“Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

Whatever it is he’s feeling (Richie doesn’t quite have a word for it, except to say it’s all kinds of good feelings mashed into one and it’s  _ bold _ and  _ loud) _ explodes out across his bond with the rest of the Losers, not necessarily on accident -- just because he wasn’t putting much effort into containing it. He’s caught up in trying to relay the information to them, shifting and squirming in his seat and almost  _ laughing _ from excitement at the idea. 

Imagine that? His own car, that he can just take wherever he wants, whenever he wants? Not have to worry about getting run over on his bike by Belch in his stupid car? Drive himself to his new job at the Aladdin even when the weather is shit, so he doesn’t show up with his uniform pants soaked to the knees or his teeth chattering from the cold?

Yeah -- sign him the fuck up.

He doesn’t really know what else to say besides “thank you,” but even before he manages that he stops.

“Wait, there’s a catch here.”

“Of course there is, Richie. Have you  _ met _ me?” 

“Worse. I was  _ raised _ by you.”

“And clearly that went well.” Both of them roll their eyes at the same time, fighting off the same lopsided smile. “I already talked to O’Hara. She’s willing to do everything for free, because I refer so many patients to her.”

Richie mulls that over for a second. “That’s because she’s the only orthodontist in Derry.”

“Not the point, Richie. She’s doing it for  _ free. _ So I’m contributing the money we’ll be saving on orthodontist bills to getting you your own car. So  _ here’s _ the deal: You get braces, you get a car. I’ll pay for half, as long as you’ve paid back your half by the time you’re thirty. Otherwise, you owe me the full amount. And we’re looking at used cars first, because you’re a teenager and having a piece of shit car to start with builds character.”

“And because they’re cheaper.”

“And because they’re cheaper.” Wentworth laughs and reaches across the booth to clap him on the shoulder.

“So,” Richie says in the Voice of one of his more recent creations, the Italian Mobster, bringing his mug to his lips to down the rest of his own coffee, “where do we start?”

Wentworth folds his hands over the table, chuckling quietly to himself before attempting to school his features into something more serious. “Well, boss,” he says, pronouncing it more like  _ “baw-ss”, _ “I hear Newport’s got a good used car lot a few minutes over the town line. What do you say we start there?”

(His accent is terrible but the  _ spirit _ is there, and that’s good enough to put Richie in the best mood he’s been in for  _ weeks.) _

  
  
  


Richie’s noticing a trend (something an outsider would consider strange, but self-awareness is actually nothing new to him). He gravitates towards the  _ gaudiest _ possible vehicles available or, lacking availability of outright gaudiness, the  _ ugliest _ ones. His dad’s amusement, tangible in the air around him, grows more potent with each lot they visit, especially as he begins to realize neither of them really know much about cars besides what looks cool and what doesn’t.

“Oh, yeah, this is the one,” Richie jokes, patting the hood of a piss-yellow rustbucket with wood panelling on the sides. “The sexiest car I’ve ever seen. It looks like someone put a steering wheel in a cereal box.”

Wentworth’s getting to the point of pissing himself laughing as he follows Richie, his most beloved and funniest son, around the used car lot, and Richie’s riding the high. He’s pretty much forgotten he’s actually supposed to be trying to find a car he wants to  _ buy, _ too busy screwing around and pretending to be an Italian mob boss with his dad (formally known as “Vinny” for the sake of this game).

Now, Richie knows how to tell when a car is cool, because he has two semi-functioning eyeballs and a vague understanding of which things are expensive, and why some cars get to be elevated on literal pedestals. “Woah, check out this bad boy!” 

Wentworth follows him up to the platform and waits on the ground as Richie climbs right on up and starts circling the (hideously green) car, trying to figure out what the hell logo that is as if it will help him  _ at all _ in identifying this car, which is  _ not _ his forte. “Do you even know what that is, Richie?” 

“Nope, but I’d bet my left nut Eddie will think it’s super cool!” See,  _ Eddie _ would know. Eddie would take one look at any of these cars and probably be able to tell him the exact date it was manufactured, or what the engine is made of, or… or  _ whatever _ people who get cars can do. He’s still got all kinds of model cars and tools and books and whatnot stored in the garage, some of it his father’s, some of it his own collection. Richie’s spent countless hours in there, or sequestered away in the rafters up above the garage, pretending to understand what Eddie was on about as he handed him tiny models of cars to admire, but content to just listen to him regardless. 

_ “...That’s _ the criteria, here?”

Richie doesn’t get a chance to respond with an,  _ “Obviously,” _ because some salesperson who’s likely earning a commission from this trudges up and says, “Interested in the Corvette? She’s a beauty. We can give you a discount on a new paint job.”

Oh, no -- this is the worst shade of green Richie’s ever had the misfortune of seeing. It’s  _ staying. _ “I like the colour, actually.”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” he says, probably to himself.

The salesperson -- Pat, he introduces himself as, and Richie’s almost positive this dude is barely a few years older than he is, still all pimply and oily, voice still cracking on occasion, about as awkward as any regular teenager, which makes the whole interaction much more comfortable for the both of them -- shows Richie the ins and outs of this “Corvette.” He understands exactly none of it, which makes him wish Eddie was around to play translator (and probably geek out about what a cool fucking car this probably is), which, in turn, makes that sullen weight settle all across him again.

He feels like an ass for getting him in trouble. He realizes, in hindsight, that sneaking into Eddie’s house was probably one of his worse ideas, since his mom is just a tad overprotective. Just a  _ smidge. _ Just enough to make her flip the fuck out on him, and probably get  _ pissed _ at Eddie for letting someone he  _ knows _ she despises with all her soul into her home. 

Richie doesn’t think it’s  _ fair  _ (it’s not as if he’s a bad person or anything) but he should have respected her wishes, because now Sonia is  _ mighty _ pissed at him, which makes Eddie equally pissed, and also probably makes Eddie grounded or something. Sonia Kaspbrak sure fucking loves to ground her son over petty shit, and Richie’s not exactly fit to compose a critique of someone’s parenting skills, seeing as he doesn’t have any snotty brats of his own running around (and doesn’t really expect that to ever happen, considering), but he’s pretty sure she could, oh, loosen the leash a little. Let her kid breathe. Let him join the school track team without him having to literally  _ hide _ it from her.

He bets if he joined the track team, his parents would be proud. Confused, because he makes a point of not going out of his way to exercise, but they’d at least be  _ supportive. _

Eddie’s mom would probably drag him to the hospital if she ever caught him, and start feeding him more bullshit medicine, and ban him from ever so much as  _ looking _ at the school gymnasium ever again.

She’s a little kooky, he’ll give her that. She also hates his guts, did he mention that?

She’s the reason that not only is Eddie not  _ here, _ with Richie and his dad, searching for Richie’s  _ first car _ without his guidance, but that Eddie won’t even  _ talk _ to him. Richie’s not going to get any fucking feedback on this entire ordeal because Eddie’s been outright fucking ignoring him all week. 

Which, to be fair, is  _ also _ Richie’s fault, for being the reason he’s probably grounded and definitely got an earful from his mom -- probably had to endure her insulting Richie (and the rest of their friends by default), since that seems to be one of her favourite past-times, while he was stuck in the house with her. 

So Eddie’s mad at him.

_ Mad. _ Enough to refuse to acknowledge him for a full week. Enough to barely speak with the rest of the Losers in that time. Somehow he’s interacting with them  _ less _ than before.

He can’t even ask Eddie if he’ll like the car, or pretend that he’s even entertaining the idea of getting a new paint job just to get his hopes up, and it’s his own damn fault.

He’s got everyone else chattering away at him. He isn’t any good with pictures, not the way Ben and Mike are, but he tries to give them a rough idea of what the car looks like. The moment the word “Corvette” enters their shared mindspace he has three Losers going ballistic on him (Ben makes a remark about  _ cost _ and that’s what drives Richie to actually take a look at the price drawn in the corner of the windshield). 

He looks to his dad and points at the numbers. Wentworth shrugs. “Whatever car you want,” he says, “but tomorrow you’re getting braces. That’s the deal.”

And besides, Pat tells them, this car’s a couple years old already and has been through the wringer. It’s a damn good deal, though the thing might need a couple repairs sooner rather than later.

That’s just as well, because Richie knows someone with an uncanny aptitude for car repair.

(That “someone” isn’t, y’know, on speaking terms with him at the moment, but how long can that last, really?)

Besides, Eddie owes him a favour. Richie spent half a day wading around in the Kenduskeag to rescue his shoes after Belch and Moose threw them in the fucking river while they were trying to fucking  _ kill him _ (he chooses not to think about what would have happened if they  _ weren’t _ connected by the shine, because the one time he did, he cried like a fucking baby). So in exchange for Richie’s troubles, and for the sunburn he got because Eddie was too busy being house-bound and injured to remind him to wear sunscreen, he’s going to claim it’s the case. He hadn’t exactly  _ asked _ Richie to save his shoes for him, but Richie figures it counts as a favour anyway, and he can cash in on that by asking Eddie to take a look at his (fucking  _ sweet) _ new ride and  _ maybe _ use that opportunity to make amends for getting him grounded. 

Wentworth makes a down payment on Richie’s first-ever, profoundly impractical, semi-expensive, (did he mention  _ ugly?) _ car, with arrangements to pick it up next week  _ if _ Richie passes his road test, “Otherwise I’m selling it for scraps.”

Richie knows he doesn’t mean it, Wentworth knows  _ Richie _ knows he doesn’t mean it, and the next day he’s in Dr. O’Hara’s office in an uncomfortable plastic chair, listening to classical music playing overhead, bouncing his leg as he reconsiders his choices.

He doesn’t want to be a buck-toothed loser for the rest of his life, sure, but that doesn’t mean he wants to endure a  _ minimum _ of six months stuck with  _ yet another _ reason for people to make fun of him -- namely people like Victor Criss, whose inventive new insults he can already hear, accompanied by the phantom feeling of a fist mashing his lips against the sharp metal they’re going to fill his mouth with. 

Wentworth looks up briefly from his magazine. Clears his throat. Glances up again. Richie’s acquainting himself with the wall, which is a perfectly untouched uniform shade of mint green all around, the moulding  _ too _ pure-white --  _ everything _ in here is too perfect, too clean, too organized. A place like this doesn’t belong in a shithole like Derry. Or, at least, the plaster could be cracked somewhere or the baseboards could be dusty, to make it seem less like a separate world from the town they live in. 

“You’re getting worked up,” his dad says, caving, setting the magazine down on his lap. It’s a brand-new issue of some stupid golf magazine, because of  _ course _ it is, because Dr. O’Hara makes  _ bank _ and she makes sure that’s reflected in the way she runs up her practice.  _ “You don’t make money by being unappealing to your clientele,”  _ Wentworth had told him once, and Richie had replied, in true Tozier fashion,  _ “How do we ever have money, then?” _

“Thank you, dearest father o’ mine. I had not realized. I shall stop immediately.”

His dad heaves a long-suffering sigh, but Richie isn’t oblivious to the curl at the corner of his mouth as he fights a smile. “Sometimes I wonder where we went wrong.”

“Having kids, obviously. Didn’t anyone ever warn you it wouldn’t be easy?” Richie flashes him a grin that shows off all his crooked teeth, eyes sparkling, and Wentworth breaks and returns it.

“Oh, no, actually. I distinctly recall everyone telling me how  _ fun _ it would be, and how enjoyable colic is, and how the teenage years are just such a  _ pleasure. _ That I’d just have the time of my life paying for you to go to college.”

Richie laughs so loud at that, the receptionist and the one other client in the waiting room both whip their heads around to glare at him. 

“Speaking of college,” Wentworth says, killing Richie’s mood instantly, “The SAT is coming up. I haven’t seen you studying much.”

Richie waves a hand dismissively. “I don’t study. I just know things,” he says with confidence, and then his  _ dad _ is laughing, and frankly he’s a bit offended at the disbelief. 

The thing is he’s not really lying. He’s always among the highest-achieving students in his classes, and things like math and chemistry come easy to him. Like, he’s a goddamn  _ Mathlete, _ what the fuck does Wentworth think he did,  _ cheated _ his way onto the team? Even stuff that requires him to actually  _ take in _ information, like history or English, are subjects he has top grades in. 

Plus, he’s pretty good at bullshitting his way through any exam or essay that’s thrown at him. 

His guidance counselor told him, while he was in her office getting help with course selection for this semester, that he’s on track to be valedictorian, and also not to tell anyone else he’d heard that, or at least not that he’d heard it from her. 

So he’s pretty sure he doesn’t have much to worry about as far as the SAT goes.

“That’s cute, but if you get a bad score on that test I  _ will _ turn your car into scrap metal. You study so you can get into a good school. I didn’t pour thousands of dollars of hard-earned money into a college fund for you to end up at Derry Community College.”

Richie mock-pouts at him. “But Father, what if I  _ want _ to go to Derry Community College? What if I just can’t  _ bear _ the idea of spending  _ so long _ apart from you and Mother Dearest? Oh, it would just  _ kill _ me to--”

“Richard Tozier?” Dr. O’Hara’s assistant calls from the doorway leading into the back room, and the receptionist heaves an audible sigh of relief as the two of them disappear behind the door with her.

“You guys do funky colours, right? Can I get all your most migraine-inducing ones, like just one colour on each tooth? Is that how that works?” he asks while he rinses his mouth out after they tortured him with some kind of fucking  _ gross-tasting _ rubber shit to make a mold of his teeth.

Dr. O’Hara, a woman who looks and talks like she should be working with preschoolers and  _ not _ tormenting teenagers with sharp tools and metal in their mouths, hands him a chart with an array of colours to choose from and says, fighting a smirk, “You can pick  _ two.” _

Which is good enough for Richie, anyway.

* * *


	32. The roller rink & the jukebox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Losers' Club and their roller rink jukebox shenanigans, feat. Eddie's dire inability to recognize his mother's treatment of him as abuse, and an unhealthy fear of spending time with his friends, which they're all collectively hoping to fix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much by way of content warnings for this chapter. Just Eddie thinking about his mom and how much trouble he would be in if he got caught hanging out with his friends.
> 
> Sorry for the 2 month delay in updating. Between going back to work, the fact that this chapter is mostly fluff (my kryptonite), and it ending up being upwards of 19,000 words in total, it took longer than expected.
> 
> But, enjoy a peek into each Losers' head!
> 
> A big "thank you!" to thatmalu & bovaque on Tumblr for helping me beta this monstrosity of a chapter! <3

* * *

June 1993

* * *

Richie can tell Eddie is still pissed at him. He feels worse about everything not just because Eddie’s miserable as all get-out, but also because it’s never been like _this_ before. Richie has half a mind to sit him down on a chaise lounge with a pen and paper in his hand, push his glasses up his nose and ask questions like, _“And how does that make you feel?”_

Also, because Eddie’s never managed to stay mad at him for this long.

Hell, Richie doesn’t think Eddie’s ever been _truly_ mad at him in his _life,_ which makes this all the more concerning (makes him wonder if maybe it isn’t anger, but something buried deep beneath the _guise_ of anger, but that thought doesn’t linger because _what else could it be?)_

He feels it _constantly_ and it weighs down on him more and more with each passing day -- Atlas cursed to carry the weight of Eddie’s misery on his shoulders.

It hurts worst of all when they pile into the back of Mike’s truck and Eddie seats himself in the corner opposite Richie, knees drawn up to his chest as he looks out at the fields behind them. No amount of prodding at the barrier he keeps up has helped; it’s more like a wall of reinforced steel, at this point. It starts to kill you inside if you spend too much time studying it.

It hurts enough that Bev’s head snaps up to look into Richie’s drawn face before her gaze flickers to Eddie and she sighs.

_‘Apologize,’_ she tells him for maybe the millionth time, as if they haven’t had this conversation on the daily since fucking _March._

_‘I already tried, Beverly.’_

_‘Try harder.’_

Well, that’s just a spec-fucking-tacular idea! How did he not think of that himself?

It just doesn’t fucking help that there’s no reason for him to be so mad! Sure, Richie got caught in his room. _Sure,_ they’re both well fucking aware that Sonia Kaspbrak thinks he’s some disease-ridden monster hellbent on contaminating or injuring or stealing away her son. _Sure,_ Eddie got in some deep shit about it.

It isn’t either of their faults! If anything, that’s all Mrs. Kaspbrak’s fault, for being a raging bitch who thinks she can control her son’s entire life. It isn’t Richie’s fucking fault that their luck finally ran out and she finally caught one of Eddie’s terrible, horrible friends sneaking into the house.

So he spends a _very_ tense drive ignoring and being ignored by Eddie, who is apparently content to just mope in his corner, and honestly, Richie’s amazed he bothered coming at all (is a little amazed he was _allowed_ to come at all).

It probably wouldn’t matter so much if Eddie was just gonna be a buzzkill the whole time, except once they’ve arrived at their destination (thanks to Eddie’s freakishly accurate navigation skills -- seriously, how the hell does he do that?) he falls into an easy conversation with Bill, and they’re _laughing_ while he helps Eddie out of the truck bed, and Richie--

Well, he doesn’t mean to be jealous, but can he really be blamed?

“Maybe tone it down,” Stan is saying beside him as he starts following them across the parking lot, grabbing him around the wrist to slow him down.

“I still think you need to apologize,” Bev says, materializing at his other side. “If you really did get him grounded, you can’t just ignore that. You’ve got to acknowledge that you made a mistake.”

As if Richie isn’t already painfully aware of the fact that he _made a mistake_ (and as if he _hasn’t already acknowledged that)._

It’s easy enough for Eddie to ignore him when Richie is just a nagging voice at the back of his head, or when there are classrooms to duck into to escape his rambling apologies.

But they mean well, and he can sense their sincerity, and just how bad they want to help him fix this. “Okay,” he says. “Fine.” If cornering Eddie to make him listen is what it takes, then he’ll seize the opportunity and do it here, where social obligations prevent him from escaping.

(Which is kind of a dick move, he realizes, but it’s _also_ kind of a dick move to avoid your own friends for three months, so--)

*

Eddie’s just pushing through the double doors to the roller rink _(RollerCade,_ the neon sign mounted to the wall above their heads reads, letters flashing erratically) when there’s a hand on his bicep and he’s being yanked back out into the muggy summer air.

“What the f--?” he cuts himself off when he realizes it’s _Richie_ who just grabbed him like that, and the anger that bubbles up in his chest seems feeble. Forced.

There’s still that little bit of nausea he gets looking at him (at _any_ of the Losers, really, but it’s worse with Richie) and what _does_ make him angry is knowing his mother got what she wanted from _that._ He can’t help the response, but the fact that Richie keeps following him around like a puppy has, interestingly enough, _helped_ him to fight it off.

Enough that he felt like he just might be able to spend a whole day with them, and besides, how could he bail on the plans he and Bev made together, even if it was a long time ago?

(As far as his mom is aware, he’s with Bill, helping Mrs. Denbrough run errands around town and helping Mr. Denbrough with his least-dangerous projects, which according to the lies Eddie made up include repairing a tire and painting the garage door.)

So when he looks at Richie now he doesn’t immediately feel sick, like maybe he’s been weaned off the conditioned response by his unrelenting presence, much like he felt just fine when Bill offered to help him out of the truck, and like he felt _alright_ for most of the drive here.

It kind of helps that when Richie smiles, or talks, there’s this little flash of the _gaudiest_ orange-and-green plastic decorating his teeth, and that was never there before, especially not in the pictures he hasn’t dared to look at in months.

Try though she might, his mom just isn’t capable of changing the way he feels about Richie. About other boys in general, but Richie _especially._

And that weak little excuse for anger fizzles out to make way for crushing guilt when Richie looks down at him with wide, shining eyes and a trembling lip and says, “Please don’t run away.”

“I won’t,” he says after a long moment watching Richie stare at him like _that_, and he _means it._ His mom is far away, back in Derry, and she has _no idea_ he’s all the way out here in Bangor or that he’s with his friends -- that he’s with _Richie,_ who isn’t a bad influence the way she thinks. There isn’t so much to be afraid of here, and he’s already settling into that familiar recklessness he tends to fall into around the Losers. Most of the shadows that make him jump are stuck back at home.

“I’m sorry,” he adds because it feels warranted. He's been _afraid_ for too long, of being caught with them, of his mother’s wrath, or her making good on her threats to take them away from him for _good._ It isn’t fair to any of them, himself included, and he’s been aware of that all along, but only now is it so painfully clear that he can finally see and understand all his other options.

He just wants to be with his friends, it’s all he wants, and sometimes they make him feel brave enough to do things that are _stupid,_ and sometimes they make him feel happy enough that the consequences just don’t matter. Which is dangerous -- oh, he _knows_ that’s a dangerous path to tread, especially with his mother’s threats still hanging over them all and a fresh bottle of ipecac syrup in the cabinet and her determination to keep them all away from him. To keep him _safe,_ whatever her idea of “safe” is. He knows it just isn’t synonymous with his own idea of happiness, and instead of feeling _sick,_ or feeling _afraid,_ he’s almost so happy he could cry, being here with them, far away from things that give him trouble. He’s _liberated,_ albeit temporarily, and he can’t quite believe he didn’t go running into their arms a long time ago if it feels this good just to _talk_ to them again.

He still hasn’t quite processed what happened with his mom, even though he’s had _months,_ so he doesn’t have the words to explain himself, and it’s all he can hope for that Richie (and everyone else) will accept his apology. He’d like to think the fact that he was almost forcibly dragged out of the house by Bill means that he’s more likely to be forgiven.

It wasn’t fair of him to just outright abandon them all like that, but even now he’s trying to come to terms with… _that,_ and he doesn’t have a good enough explanation, except to instinctively want to blame someone else for putting him in that position. It’s wrong, and he knows it, and all he wants, in the end, isn’t to shift the blame to them -- it’s to just exist around them and to do it peacefully, without any threats to their well-being darkening the horizon.

“What are you sorry for? I’m the one who got you in trouble.” He doesn’t _need_ to see the tears in Richie’s eyes to know he’s close to crying, because they burn in his own eyes just the same, and part of him, some part that’s maybe petty or maybe desperate, wants to just _tell him._ Tell him exactly why he’s been so flighty, but he doesn’t even know _what_ to say. “Can you please just let me apologize this time? You don’t even have to forgive me, okay, I just want you to hear me out, and then you can go back to ignoring me for as long as you want. Okay?”

One second he’s shaking his head and biting down on his lip, trying to tell Richie _no,_ he didn’t do anything wrong, didn’t do anything except try to check up on him, like a _good friend,_ and the next he’s bawling and he can’t speak at all. It’s _just--_ it’s just the wanting to explain all his woes to someone. It’s wanting his mom to just love him for who he is. It’s _knowing_ he hurt Richie and he could have done better. It’s the haze of the past few months and the strain on his relationship with his mom, a rift somehow wider than ever, and trying to tiptoe around her, all day, every day, confined to the house, knowing things will only be worse if he tries to spend some time away from that… that _hellhole._

He hates it there, sometimes, and feels _awful_ about it. He should be grateful he even has a place to call home and a mother who cares so much for his well-being. If she didn’t care so much, he’d probably be dead by now, wouldn’t he? She protects him even if he doesn’t like the way she goes about it.

Mostly, he cries knowing he has to go back, and with every mile they travelled away from Derry, he felt a little less burdened, and a little more like a fool for ignoring his friends, who were all around him and who have only ever wanted what’s best for him. He doesn’t want to get in trouble for being with them, but he doesn’t know how to get by without them.

He’s been fucking _miserable._ Can’t his mom see that? That he’d be happier if he didn’t have to worry about being caught with them?

Probably for the first time ever, Richie hesitates to hug him. Eddie _knows_ he’s crying, too.

He’s glad everyone else rushed into the building when Richie pulled him aside, because they’re probably gross, snotty messes, and it’s embarrassing.

“I’m sorry I didn’t-- I didn’t…” He sucks in a tremulous breath and his fingers curl into the worn fabric of Richie’s jacket. He loves this stupid jacket.

He loves the stupid boy who wears it.

It’s dangerous, but he keeps loving him anyway.

“It’s just… after she--” But he can’t finish the sentence, because he doesn’t know _how_ and because Richie’s already shushing him.

“I shouldn’t have come snooping around when you obviously wanted some space. I shouldn’t have even _risked_ getting caught by your mom. I know I’m not her favourite. I should’ve-- I dunno, at least waited until it was later, or just not gone at all, I just…” Richie sighs against the top of his head. “I know that I did something wrong. I’m sorry, Eds. I get if you’re pissed at me.”

“I’m not,” he says, then clarifies, “mad at you, I mean. I’m… kinda mad at my mom, actually, for getting so mad about it.”

_For scaring him._ And _that’s_ it: he’s been _scared._ Scared of what will happen if he upsets her like that again. Scared of the consequences.

Richie sighs, weary, against the top of his head. “I could… _not_ climb in your window. I’m really sorry I pissed you off. Or, uh, pissed _her_ off. I’ll stop.”

“No!” Eddie says before his brain has caught up to his mouth. He means it, though he doesn’t mean for it to come out so _desperate,_ and curses himself for being _obvious._ There’s a curl of nausea in his gut.

“No?”

“No, you don’t have to stop. Just… don’t come around without asking first, okay?”

Richie draws back from the embrace to stare down at him, a grin playing at his lips. “Oh, so you _like_ when I risk my life to scale the side of your house to pay you a secret visit. How sweet. If you want, I can go the extra mile and throw rocks at your window and stand underneath it with a boombox blasting _In Your Eyes.”_

Eddie’s face goes warm. Stupidly, he thinks he wouldn’t mind that. He also wouldn’t terribly mind climbing right out of his window and down to the ground just to kiss Richie, a thought that would get him in all kinds of trouble if he ever voiced it aloud, but that sends a high thrill through him nonetheless. He has to wonder if Richie even understands the implications of his own statement or if he’s just _that_ obtuse. But Richie doesn’t seem embarrassed, and Eddie’s clearly the idiot here for getting all these romantic idealisms tangled up with his thoughts of Richie, and for jumping to (ridiculous) conclusions.

As if Richie would ever do _anything_ with _actual_ romantic intent towards another boy.

“Can you let me apologize now? Because I _am_ sorry,” he says, and barrels on when Richie starts shaking his head, opens his mouth with an intent to tell him to _stop_ that Eddie can sense through the shine. _“Seriously._ You guys are my best friends and it’s shitty of me to shut you all out like that. I just don’t want you to get in trouble, you know? She really fucking hates that I’m friends with you guys, and I don’t want you to get in trouble because of me.”

Whether she’ll make good on her threats or not isn’t something he’s particularly interested in finding out, and it keeps his heart rate hovering a few beats above normal to know that just being here, even with reluctant permission to “spend the day at Bill’s” (a lie, but _Bill’s_ lie), is a risk.

He’s been earning his freedom back, little by little, since their latest incident, but if she could see him now she’d _flip._

“I _swear_ I’ll try to be around more often, okay? You’re my--” here he has to swallow down the knot of tears blocking his voice, “You’re my best friends and I love you and I just want to make sure everyone knows that, okay? Even if I’m not there all the time.”

“Yeah, I--” Richie’s hand is on his cheek, and there’s a jolt of euphoria through Eddie that he hopes no one picked up on. “Of course, yeah. We love you, too, Spaghetti Head.”

Instead of biting back that he hates that stupid name, Eddie has to scrub tears away from his cheeks to make it at least a _little_ less obvious that he’s been crying. “I _do_ want to spend time with you. I _do._ I _promise.”_

(He’s just _stuck.)_

“Okay, okay,” Richie tucks his sleeve up over the heel of his hand and helps him dry his face, even though his _own_ face is noticeably damp. “We understand. I’m sorry about all of this. Alright? You do whatever you need to do to stop Mrs. K from going full crazy, yeah? We’ll sneak you out when we need to. Plant a mannequin in your bed as a decoy. Whatever we gotta do. Okay?”

And for as stupid and ridiculous and _funny_ as that is, objectively, it also makes gratitude swell so big in his chest he chokes out a half-formed sob and Richie has to dry his tears all over again.

They have to take a couple minutes to compose themselves before they actually follow the others inside (Eddie doesn’t mind because Richie’s got his hands all over him in those few minutes and he’s quietly, secretly basking in it after several months of limited contact). The second Richie is through the doors his eyes light up, and Eddie doesn’t have to ask why. He can _see_ why.

“Fuck _yes,_ oh my god, they have a jukebox!” he hollers when he catches sight of it, and Eddie can see into his head well enough to know the _jukebox_ isn’t the only thing that’s got him so excited -- there it sits, glowing garish pinks and blues in the corner, _I Think We’re Alone Now_ being channelled into the overhead speakers, surrounded by all manner of arcade games. It’s like a neon paradise over there.

So it comes as something of a surprise when he doesn’t abandon their plans for roller skating to waste away the afternoon parked in front of a console.

“Eddie, I dunno if you noticed, but we’ve got a perfectly good arcade back in Derry. What we _don’t_ have is the cultural phenomenon that is roller rinks,” he explains when Eddie asks, then adds, “Besides, once I’ve decided I’m done bruising my ass worse than when you taught me to ride Shreddie Mercury, I’m definitely going to blow the high scores on _Street Fighter_ out of the fucking water.”

“That’s not--” Eddie stops walking towards where the rest of the Losers are queued up to rent skates, plants his hands on his hips and glowers at Richie, who's now looking back over his shoulder. “Stop calling it that. It’s a skateboard. It doesn’t need a name.”

Richie, being that he is a melodramatic ass first and a human being second, slaps a hand over his heart and gasps like he’s been struck. “Why, I _never!_ Your _own child?_ _This_ is why I got custody, in case it wasn’t--”

“Oh my god, you’re so…” But he doesn’t have the right words for what Richie is, because _infuriating_ is too harsh and _adorable_ is too tender and he can’t find a middle ground, so he storms past Richie to catch up with their friends, who seem to be pointedly _not_ looking at them.

Richie, curse his dumb, long legs, is back by his side in a heartbeat, so close their arms brush, and Eddie has this split-second desire to just grab his hand, but then something inside him shudders, dark and heavy, and it’s gone just like that.

“Guys, stop! There’s important business to take care of before we do anything else!” Richie is hollering once the Losers are within earshot. He waves them over and their shared confusion is palpable as they abandon their spots in the line to meet Richie and Eddie halfway.

_Eddie_ doesn’t even know what the fuck he’s on about this time, but he’s directing them to the arcade and for a second, Eddie thinks he’s been lied to about Richie’s intent to _not_ waste the entire day in the arcade. But Richie takes them right to the edge, where the jukebox waits against the wall for someone to throw away some money choosing a song.

“A quarter per song? Anyone got quarters handy?” Richie asks, and they pool their pocket change to come up with the necessary dollar and seventy-five cents needed for each of them to choose a song.

Eddie hangs back while Richie screws around with the stupid machine, flipping through all of the options once, and then twice, and it may be that a miracle is taking place here at the _RollerCade_ because Richie Tozier rarely deliberates so fiercely when it comes to small decisions like this. He’s more of a leap-before-you-look kind of person. The words “impulse control” meaning nothing to him.

Stan, after a few minutes of this, steps up beside him, engages in a whispered argument, smacks the back of Richie’s head, and snaps, “Just do that one, you fucking--” His eyes dart behind them, to where everyone else is standing around waiting for a turn with the jukebox, and he sighs before shoving Richie aside to make his selection.

Everyone else goes back to the skate rental kiosk once they’re done, except Richie, who waits nearby while Eddie cycles through all of the songs. There are a lot more than he expected. Last time he got to use a jukebox was before the one at Rosa’s Diner broke down, and it had been a tiny, shitty thing, dusty where it wasn’t rusty, the lights inside dim at best.

This thing is a beast by comparison.

“Ready, Eddie?” Richie asks, once Eddie’s fed his quarter into the machine and sought out his favourite artists.

“You’re dumb,” Eddie says, following him away, and they both know this is a total lie, and Richie shoves his shoulder as they head back to the kiosk together.

Bill’s already passing out skates to everyone when they arrive, and he tosses two pairs right at Richie’s face. Fortunately (or unfortunately, for Bill) Richie catches them and flips him off for his attempted face-mangling. “Shocked you managed to get the right sizes, Big Bill. Maybe your pea brain _is_ good for something,” he says, with a contradictory amount of fondness for such a rude comment.

He holds the smaller pair out to Eddie, and several things occur to him at once. Namely, that _other people have worn those things_ and he has no way of knowing what kind of… bacterial _jungle_ is residing in them. Also, that he should have thought about that a long time ago. Like, when Bill first knocked on his door this morning, putting on the charm to ask if Eddie could please come over to spend time with him, while telling Eddie secretly through their bond that that was _not_ in the actual plans for the day, and to prepare for a little road trip. That should have been the _first_ thing he thought about at that moment.

“No, no, no, I changed my mind about _all_ of this.” Eddie shoves the worn pair of roller skates back towards Richie, who’s already trembling with barely-suppressed laughter (the urge to pinch his cheeks is _tangible_ and just makes Eddie scowl more), “Do you have _any_ idea what kind of infections you can contract from improperly-cleaned footwear?”

“Can’t be any worse than anything your mom’s got going on.”

“Richie, I’m serious! These look like they’ve never been so much as spritzed with fucking Lysol.” He huffs loudly, crossing his arms and turning up his nose in a way that would clearly mean ‘this conversation is over’ to anyone except Richie.

“If I get them ‘spritzed with Lysol’ will you stop being a princess?”

Eddie _glares_ and that _urge_ sears through Richie’s fingertips again -- he easily picks up on it. “Leave my cheeks alone,” he snaps (even though he’s never really minded when he does that, at least not as much as he says he does).

Richie pretends to blow him a kiss and waltzes off to get the skates cleaned before Eddie can get mad about it.

Richie calls him a princess again when he asks him to plant his “dainty little ass” on the bench so he can help Eddie tie them on, and right at that moment he regrets that they’ve just made up because he’s beginning to think he should be giving Richie the silent treatment strictly for being insufferable at this point.

“Say that one more time and I won’t talk to you for another three months,” he growls, face too warm, as Richie kneels in front of him and starts lacing up his skates.

“That’s cruel, Eds. Cruel. You know I can’t--” he cuts himself off, coughs into his hand, and says, “Who would I make fun of all day? Who would I share all my best material with?”

“Write it in a journal, numbnuts.”

He knew he missed his friends -- and Richie in particular -- while he was busy blocking them out, for their sake as much as his own. But he didn’t realize just how _desperately_ he missed them until this moment, when Richie tips his head back and laughs at what he said, so loud a couple of strangers nearby turn to stare, and he really doesn’t think it was that funny. But when Richie wipes at his eyes he says, “Never thought I’d miss hearing you insult me, but here we are.”

There’s an ache in his chest that feels dull and grey when he thinks about going home tonight, and how it’ll probably be weeks before his mom decides he’s earned another trip out of the house. It’s summer, now, and they aren’t in school, so he won’t be able to see them otherwise.

At least he’s confident, now, that he can keep a (somewhat) open channel of communication with them, and that he won’t slip up and think of something he _shouldn’t_ while they have (limited) access to his head.

He doesn’t want to just _go back home_ and leave them behind, and listen to his mother complain about them, and tell him how they’d all deserve it if she got them in trouble. He _has_ to, but he doesn’t _want_ to.

“I can insult you more, if that helps. I’ve got a lot to work with.”

***

_ Covergirl _

Ben knows he’s made a mistake within five seconds of stepping out onto the rink. Somehow, he thought this would be easy, despite the wobbling, newborn-deer walk he’d made from the benches to the gate. His feet start to slide right out from under him and he clings to the wall for dear life.

He doesn’t think he’ll be able to get back up if he falls down, and there probably isn’t anything worse in the world than being stuck on his back in the middle of the rink, helpless, while strangers glide easily by and laugh at his predicament.

Heat creeps up his cheeks in a flash as a group of giggling teenage girls pass him, and they _must_ be laughing at him, but he’s afraid to look at them and make sure, just in case he’s right. In theory, this had seemed like a good idea, a little bit of fun and freedom to celebrate the end of the school year, and a good way to drag Eddie away from his house and _keep_ him out of it, for a few hours, at least. Now Ben is realizing everything wrong with their plan, and remembering why he shouldn’t ever do things like this, or risk drawing attention to himself, even though he’s lost most of the weight he’s been carrying in his gut and on his chest for the better part of his life. He really has, between the track team and the diet he put himself on, and his morning runs -- which he used to take with Eddie, and now takes alone, though he’s got his hopes up that things might change after this, if Richie can be forgiven for getting him grounded, or whatever it was that happened.

Surely he can, if it’s something that small, and if, as Beverly has said, her suspicions about Eddie’s home life are incorrect.

So he might not be crazy to hope Eddie will start joining him for runs at dawn again. It’s been important to him, more so than he’s let on, because Eddie has stood like a pillar of support for him through all of this, and comforted him while he cried, and encouraged him to stand up to his mother about her habit of overfeeding him; to put his foot down on the matter of taking his diet into his own hands and keeping his body healthy in the ways he feels are best. And it’s _worked --_ by George, has it ever worked.

But that hasn’t changed the belief that’s ingrained in him, that he’s something to be embarrassed about, and something to be laughed at and made fun of, and _judged_ at every turn, like right now.

Right now, as his feet are slipping out from under him and he’s got a death-grip on the wall and the small bulge that’s still leftover from his gradual weight loss is squashed against the cold plastic.

This is clearly not going to end well. He needs to cut his losses and get the fuck out of here. Maybe spend some time dicking around in the arcade until Richie inevitably ends up there, probably with Eddie in tow, as they seem to have made amends, and then the three of them can take turns kicking each other’s butts on all these shiny, fancy games, so unlike the decrepit things collecting dust in the arcade of the Aladdin.

Slowly, with great care not to fall and end up stuck on the floor, unable to stand, like a fat turtle for all passersby to point and laugh at, he tries to shuffle along the wall, back towards the gate he came through. It’s only a few steps behind him, really, but the distance seems unfathomable when he can’t maintain his balance and there’s this huge crowd of people swarming around him. Not to mention the kids, the kids much younger than him, skating past easily and without any fear of falling. How humiliating would it be if he were to fall so easily and not a single one of them was even at _risk_ of it?

_‘New Kids on the Block, huh? Wonder who chose **that.’ **_says Bev’s voice in his head, and when he looks up in surprise, he sees a mop of red hair bobbing through the crowd towards him. She slides to a halt just in front of him and winks. High above their heads, Donnie Wahlberg’s voice is echoing through the raised ceiling, and Ben can’t help but grin back at her as she nudges his arm playfully. “Looks like you could use a hand.”

What Ben wants to do is say something to make her laugh (he really likes it when she laughs; he gets that same feeling he knows Richie gets whenever Eddie laughs, except Ben just hopes he does a better job of hiding it). Something like, _“Yeah, you can say that again!”_ which isn’t on par with anything Richie or Stan would come up with at a moment’s notice, but it’s still sure to get a smile and a chuckle from her, and that’s good enough for him. But, no, that isn’t what he says, and instead, stupidly, he says this: “Oh, no, that’s alright, Bev. You don’t have to help me. You should just go have fun. I’m only going to slow you down.”

“Bullshit,” Bev tells him, and she’s already grabbing his hands _(oh god)_ from where he's white-knuckling the top edge of the half-wall surrounding the rink, and _oh Jesus almighty he’s gonna fall down and he’s gonna take her down with him and then he’ll die, he’ll absolutely **die** of embarrassment, or even worse, she’ll never talk to him again because he made her fall down, oh **Jesus--**_ “Skating isn’t any fun without a partner. I need to be able to talk someone’s ear off, otherwise, I’m just going in circles for no good reason.”

She could use literally any other Loser for that, and they both know it, and frankly, Ben is a bit too dumbfounded to resist anymore as he’s wheeled away from the wall (his safe haven) and into the traffic travelling all in one direction. She sticks to the outer edges, thankfully, but it doesn’t make Ben any less nervous about the impending disaster. “Bev, I’m not sure--”

“Loosen up a little. Unlock your knees. You’re going to fall right over if you don’t move your feet a little bit.”

“How’d you learn to skate?” he asks dumbly, even though he knows full well she skates in Portland with her “other friends” all the time -- those “friends” she gets on with well enough but that will never compare to what she has with the Losers, not least because they can read each other’s minds.

“I used to own a pair of quad skates, actually, and I’d practice all around town. Mostly going up and down Kansas Street, since there were usually fewer people around to see me fall down, but just enough so I wasn’t completely alone.”

Ben puts some effort into _not_ imagining Beverly rolling up and down Kansas Street with her knees all bruised and bandaged and scrapes on her elbows, maybe one of Eddie’s cutesy flowers Band-Aids that are an extra fifty cents at the pharmacy but “totally worth it” slapped on her chin where she’d likely cut it. But it’s hard not to, and when he does, he laughs a little, letting Bev see it, too.

She laughs with him and his heart rate kicks up, face going impossibly redder, sweat breaking out all along his hairline. _‘Yeah, something like that,’_ she says, nodding along.

When Ben looks down, to where his feet are still locked in one position as he’s dragged along, he finds she’s masterfully propelling herself backward, rolling her ankles to slide one foot back and use the other to direct her movements. _‘How long does it take to learn that?'_ he wonders, and Bev’s hands around his own give a gentle squeeze.

“A few years. Maybe let’s just focus on not falling down for today. Or falling down safely. Like this.” And she lets go, just like that, only slowing enough that his momentum is interrupted and he won’t go flying past her and slam into a wall. She trips herself up and goes sprawling, taking care to avoid landing too hard on her wrists or elbows and to keep her head well away from the hard floor. The meat of her forearms smacks the hardwood and the sensation reverberates through Ben’s own arms, making him wince. Her knees, too, hit the floor hard enough to bruise, and aloud he asks, “Why would you _want_ that to happen? I mean, why skate at all if you’re just going to fall down and get hurt?”

He’s rolled to a stop just a few inches from where she let go of him, in a testament to her ability to judge that kind of thing, but his feet are starting to slip again, and no matter how much he tries to tense up his legs to stop his feet from moving, he can’t seem to stop it.

Sensing this, or maybe just reading his panicked thoughts as he once again imagines falling and all the terrible outcomes, Bev leaps back to her feet with a grace that seems inhuman to Ben (who cannot imagine moving that smoothly with these damned contraptions on his feet) and grabs for his hands again. He grabs back this time, grateful for her help.

“Because,” she tells him, smiling so bright as she wraps her fingers around his that he’s afraid it might outright blind him, “once you get the hang of it, it’s fun! It feels like flying, just gliding along like this, y’know?”

He doesn’t, he doesn’t know at all, but he desperately wishes to. They’ve made a full circle now, passing the point where Bev rescued him from certain humiliation, and just past the low wall, he can see that Richie and Eddie haven’t even made their way onto the rink yet. There’s the faint reverberation of their bickering humming in their shared shine, an argument so fond and intense it refuses to remain contained. Eddie has Richie’s glasses in his hand and his fanny pack unzipped, using the microfiber cloth he keeps handy to scrub away the buildup of dirt and grease and fingerprints from the last several months that Richie couldn’t be bothered to do anything about.

_‘How the fuck do you even **survive** on a day-to-day basis when you can’t fucking see two feet in front of your face?’_

And Richie’s laughing, and there’s this giddy-warm feeling blooming between his ribs, the very same way Ben sometimes feels looking at Beverly, or when she’s teasing him, or when they’re just sitting quietly in the library together, just the two of them. He’s _sure,_ absolutely _positive,_ Eddie feels that way around Richie sometimes, but he’s also damn good at blocking the rest of them out from what he feels -- good enough at it that there’s usually a gap where Ben thinks he’s supposed to be, in that shared space between their minds. And besides, even when Eddie isn’t being too private about his own thoughts and feelings, it’s almost impossible to distinguish between Richie and Eddie because they exist on the same wavelength.

“Ben, you have to relax,” Bev is saying, drawing his attention back to her. He’s still wobbling and too-tense, despite her reassurances, but he thinks maybe he melts a little inside when she smiles at him so carefully, eyes bright, and says, “I ain’t gonna let you fall, Haystack, no way. I’d catch you, I would.” And it’s so like something Richie would say -- like some ridiculous Voice he’d pull out of his ass to get them all roaring -- that he laughs without meaning to, and Bev’s smile grows somehow even warmer. “Somethin’ funny, there, boy?”

“No, ma’am, nothing funny at all,” he says around a smile, shaking his head earnestly.

“Good,” says Bev. “Buckle up, then, ‘cause you’re not leaving this’ere rink until I’ve made a pro out of you, swear on my life.”

_ December 1963 (Oh, What A Night)_

Richie realizes just in time that he may have been a touch overzealous in rushing out onto the rink with Eddie in tow. He does some kind of funky half-turn, one foot spinning out and the other kicking up behind him (not intentionally, unfortunately), his hand squeezing Eddie’s so hard in his panic he can _feel_ the pressure burn through the knuckles of his opposite hand, thrown right back at him via their bond, and then it’s over.

_Man down!_

He’s suddenly grateful that Eddie coerced him to wear a helmet because he’s pretty sure he’d be _hurtin’_ if he wasn’t. He lands so hard his bones rattle, he’d dare say, and his teeth _clack_ together, and his head _still_ hurts where the helmet made contact with the floor, but probably not as bad as it would otherwise.

There’s a _thud_ and a groan as Eddie goes down, too, and Richie remembers he’s still holding his hand. “Aw, fuck,” he says sheepishly. “Sorry. You alright, Eds?”

“Right as rain,” says Eddie with a half-hearted thumbs-up, rubbing his sore elbow with his opposite hand. “I don’t know how to get back up, though.”

Richie mulls that one over for a second. "You know something? I don’t, either.’" He pulls them both up to kneel, and he’s surprised it’s a look of amusement and not consternation that crosses Eddie’s face.

Look at them. A couple of idiot teenagers who don’t have a damn clue what they’re doing, stuck on their asses right here in the middle of the roller skating rink, even while kids half their age go sailing past like it _ain’t no thing._

It sure is a _thing,_ but Eddie’s sure right in thinking it’s a _funny_ thing, because when they try to stand up while leaning on each other for support and just end up a tangle of limbs back on the floor, Richie can’t think of what else to do except to laugh. It’s a nervous kind of laugh, something that says _oh goodness please don’t look too close into my head right now, please just laugh along with me, because this **is** funny, objectively, but if you see in my head right now you aren’t gonna like it._ Eddie’s fallen right on top of him and when he laughs with his eyes squeezed shut and his head tipped back Richie can’t help but think how he’d like to kiss him, even just once, even if it ruins their friendship forever (which is terrifying enough as a thought on its own). He tries to sit up with one hand braced on Richie’s chest, and then the wheels under his toes go slip-sliding and he falls right back on him, probably bruising up Richie’s ribs with his chin, and Richie wants to just hold him, _god,_ that’s all, and poor Stan is probably right about how glaringly obvious he is about these things. He’d bet his last buck he’s probably doing a worse job of hiding his feelings than Ben on any given day, and _oh please oh** please** don’t look too close._

But he’s also going all warm in his chest, and it isn’t just his own uncontainable affection, but it’s Eddie’s contagious laughter, too, and some of his own, so he brays a huge laugh even when his ribs decry an ache from Eddie _landing right on top of him._ “Aw, fuck,” he says again. “Looks like we’re trapped, Captain.”

“No such thing, Lieutenant,” Eddie assures, giggling behind one of his hands, eyes bright. “Here, sit up and let me use your shoulder to balance so I can stand.”

“What, and just leave me here to die?”

“Yes,” Eddie says with plain sincerity. “It’s every man for himself out here, don’t you know?”

“Well, then, it’s been an honour,” Richie concedes as Eddie plants a hand on his shoulder and wobbles his way back to his feet.

He spends a good minute or two trying to find a way to keep his balance, ankles twisting this way and that, and then all at once it’s like it just _clicks,_ and he’s grabbing for Richie’s hands to help him up, too. “Don’t fall.”

“Can’t make any promises.”

Eddie thinks something half-formed and amused about _giraffe legs_ that gets Richie laughing again, shoulders jumping from the force of it, and when Eddie tries to get them straightened out, he overbalances again and sends them careening right into the wall.

“Aw, fuck,” Eddie says this time, flat on his back, clutching at the helmet where it made contact with the floor. “I’m gonna be bruised to hell when we get home.” _‘My mom’s gonna be **pissed.’**_

“You and me both.” Richie rolls his sleeve up to examine the bruise already forming on his forearm, stark against his pale skin.

Some kind of agreement passes between them, a mutual conclusion that even the threat of bruises or broken bones or chipped teeth isn’t going to stop them. Because they’ve faced worse and come out alright. Because they’re here to have fun and they’re no pussies. Because there’s this little bit of reckless bravery that comes to life inside them when all the Losers are together as a whole.

Because they’re _happy_ like this, _just_ like this, a warmth like sunshine spreading through their bodies, and whether that’s just from being _together_ after too long spent apart, or something else entirely, Richie doesn’t know. But he wouldn’t trade it for anything. So he’s going to keep right at it because Eddie’s just as happy as he is to be here, like this, and he can sense that.

It’s being able to laugh together with him, for sure, that’s got Richie feeling so damn _giddy,_ and when he tries to stand and immediately bruises his ass and Eddie laughs himself to _tears,_ he thinks he might just die from it.

Which would be just fine. Just okey-dokey.

Hell, if he had to choose a way to go--

His hands are slippery with sweat by the time they’re both standing again, and not just from the warmth of so many bodies packed into a space. Eddie doesn’t comment on it as he laces their fingers together (Richie’s heart leaps into his fucking throat) and tries to direct Richie to merge into the flow of traffic. It doesn’t go well: Richie damn near takes out some teeny-bopper with too many butterfly clips in her hair, but she ducks and dodges at the last second. “Sorry!” he shouts after her, trying to get his legs -- yes Eddie was right, _fucking giraffe legs_ \-- to cooperate.

He’s seen _Bambi._ He knows how this shit ends.

Fortunately, Eddie’s got it in the bag now, because Richie narrowly avoids going down and being run over by a gaggle of kids who are probably here for a birthday party or something, and once he’s got Eddie to protect and defend his honour or whatever, he can focus less on not dying and more on the important things. Like the fact that when Eddie stumbles he always turns towards Richie, which is obviously just an instinctive reaction but it kinda warms his little ol’ heart when Eddie’s face is smushed against his chest while he rights them again, laughing at his own mistake. Or the way he’s still holding his hand, and Richie’s really not sure which of them actually initiated it, but he’s sure as hell not planning to be the first one to pull away. Or the song he chose on the jukebox, that cost him a whole twenty-five cents and that he could sing along to in his sleep, and wouldn’t mind listening to for the rest of his life.

And sing along he _does,_ much to Eddie’s dismay, hollering and whooping and missing every note, stumbling when Eddie does, licking his hand when he slaps it over his mouth in a desperate attempt to make him _stop_ (“People are staring, Richie”).

_“I felt a rush like a rollin’ ball of thunder!”_ he yowls when Eddie snatches his (now damp) hand away with a huff.

“You sound like a dying cat!” Eddie tries to shout over him, scrubbing his hand on his pant leg. “Someone is going to call the cops if you keep doing that!”

_“Spinnin’ my head around n’ takin’ my body under!”_

“I am literally begging you!”

People are _absolutely_ staring, with various expressions of bewilderment and annoyance, which only spurs him on. He slings an arm around Eddie’s shoulders, face flushed from exertion (he’s trying to go all-out to maximize the reaction from Eddie, which seems to be working). “I’m serenading you, Eds. Don’t you appreciate the musical stylings of Trashmouth Tozier?”

“I do not,” Eddie says dryly.

“Yowza. Just stab me through the heart next time, why dontcha?”

“You were _not_ born to sell _that_ voice, Richie. Maybe one of the other ones, when you’re a… a world-famous ventriloquist, or a radio host, or a voice actor, or something. But Broadway is going to reject your application. I promise.”

And he says it with such _sincerity,_ gleeful mischief simmering low in his eyes, free hand now pressed flat to Richie’s chest, that there’s another one of those _oh god oh fuck I like him **so much**_ panic-flutters through his whole body that just barely manages to tear a tense laugh out of him. “I know,” he says. “I know. Stan’s the one with the voice of an angel. Not gonna stop me from singing to you, anyway.”

Eddie nods, keeping his mouth firmly in a straight line. “It really should, though.”

Richie kind of wishes he could marry him.

_ Girls Just Want To Have Fun  _

“Aw, shit and Shinola,” Stan says the second he’s set foot on the rink. He’s no master in the realm of athletic prowess, but he surely didn’t expect to go down so _fast._ He throws his arms out to his sides in an attempt to maintain balance, succeeding only in smacking Bill -- who’s just a step or two behind him -- right in the face.

_“Shit,”_ Bill echoes, even as he reaches out to steady Stan with one hand, grabbing his aching nose with the other.

“Crap, sorry, sorry. I got it,” Stan insists. “I got it.” Even though he most assuredly does _not._

Roller skating shouldn’t be _difficult._ There isn’t much to it, after all. One foot in front of the other, just like walking, though now with the added effect of moving further on each step.

Stan is dead fucking wrong about _that,_ and it takes him several minutes to figure out how to balance, almost taking Bill down with him multiple times, and he can’t help but get flustered as Bill _laughs_ at him, like any of this is funny. He’s only trying to retain his _dignity,_ here, and Bill just happens to be the nearest life preserver available.

“I _got_ it,” he keeps telling him, and Bill’s only laughing more, but it isn’t a _cruel_ laugh, not by any means. He’s smiling down at Stan like there isn’t anywhere he’d rather be, and he shows him -- in his head and with their bodies -- just how to move his feet, and _maybe_ Stan is still red in the face when Bill takes both Stan’s hands in his and pulls him along the edge of the rink until he’s got the footwork down.

_‘Sorry we can’t all be weirdly perfect at everything like you,’_ Stan thinks, half-bitter, half-teasing, just loud enough for only Bill to hear.

_‘You can if you’ve got me as a teacher.’_

“Don’t get too cocky, now. Your tiny head will blow up like a balloon.”

“Oh no, my ego.” Bill places one hand over his heart, eyes dancing.

Stan, in a bold move, rests one of his own hands right over Bill’s and says with the utmost sincerity, “It’s big enough already. It can handle the blow.”

Bill’s wrapping him up in a hug before he can even react, cackling right in his ear, breath catching on the _force_ of it. He _completely_ fucks up their momentum, trips himself over backward, and barely avoids what was sure to be a traumatic brain injury as he goes sprawling, Stan landing on top of him. There’s a sensation, like sunshine, that ripples through the bond just between the two of them, and Stan can’t help laughing, too, as much as he’s trying to keep himself quiet and composed.

In the dimness of the large room, the flickering and bouncing of multicoloured lights fastened to the ceiling overhead, Stan watches Bill's warm face quietly, watches as he sets himself easily back on his feet and grabs for Stan with outstretched hands. “Don’t complain to me if you end up with any broken bones, okay? This was all Bev’s idea,” he says, grinning with all his teeth, and Stan is struck by that magnetic pull again, that certainty that he’d follow Bill to the ends of the earth. That he’d die for him if he asked. It’s no less terrifying now than it was when they were kids.

“Pretty sure Eddie contributed, too,” he says through numb lips, trying to shake that overzealous affection away as Bill lifts him to his feet again.

“Oh, so they worked together to plot our demise. Good to know.”

_“‘Our,’”_ Stan snorts. “As if you weren’t _born_ with some kind of supernatural ability to be good at everything you try.”

“You’re right. My bad.” Bill pats his cheek in a gesture reminiscent of Richie’s teasing with Eddie. “Bev and Eddie plotted _your_ demise. I just agreed to be a party to their scheming.”

Stan can see, not too far ahead of them, Richie and Eddie clinging to each other for dear life as they slip and stumble their way into a wall, nearly taking out a (much less disastrous) couple on the way by. Peals of laughter carry across to where Stan is taking his first tentative steps on his own, starting up a cautious _step-glide_ pattern while Bill hovers. “You know what?” Stan says as he tears his gaze from the two morons trying to get themselves killed and focuses instead on his own two feet. “I think this one was all Bev, and she just wanted Eddie to feel like it was his idea, too.”

Bill turns his head to look at them, one hand still hovering by Stan’s side. “Well,” he says, slow and suddenly even _more_ amused, “she was definitely plotting _something.”_

“You think Eddie’s gonna actually let us breathe the same air as him again, or is he going to get his fill and then make himself scarce?”

“I think his mom won’t let him out of the damn house,” says Bill, a touch of uncharacteristic bitterness creeping into his voice. “And I think he’s got balls of steel and he’s gonna figure out a way to get out no matter what, now that… whatever the fuck was going on with those two is cleared up.”

That muddy cloud that’s been sitting heavy in the bond between them and Eddie, thickest between him and Richie, has all but dissipated. There’s a lingering sense of something like nausea, a trepidation that wasn’t there before, but Stan doesn’t feel scribbled out the way he has for months now. He can see -- or rather _sense_ \-- Eddie with them again. Properly, at least. Like he’s torn down a barrier.

He’d bet the Turtle thought this whole telepathy thing was going to make ignoring each other impossible, but it probably didn’t account for Eddie’s resolve of fucking steel.

“Ah, crap,” Bill says out of the blue, grabbing Stan by the hand and wheeling him around towards the center of the rink.

Stan, much better balanced now, and propelling his own self forward with little help from Bill, doesn’t have to ask to know where his focus has turned. Mike is up ahead looking half a second from shitting his pants, probably praying to God or Jesus or whoever his church school taught him about (or maybe just Maturin and whatever the fuck else is really going on up there) that he doesn’t fall on his ass. Or worse, his head.

Big Bill, ever the knight in shining armour, to the rescue. As things should be.

_ Dancing in the Moonlight _

It’s a miracle Mike’s still upright, and he’s seen enough otherworldly occurrences in his lifetime to know a miracle when he sees one. On all sides of him, people are swarming -- or maybe it just feels so overcrowded because he feels so damn close to toppling right over, and he fears anyone coming too near will prematurely overbalance him.

It had been a mistake, he understands now, to set his feet down on the smooth hardwood and aim straight for the centre of the rink, because now he’s trapped in the middle of a veritable vortex of skaters and the nearest wall still seems impossibly far. He tries to press all his weight down on one foot to get himself moving forward, build up some kind of momentum to get himself back to the edge, but gravity’s putting up a hell of a fight and his foot nearly slides completely out from under him as he throws his arms out to his sides and pinwheels them, as if he can convince the empty air around him to provide leverage.

In theory, this had seemed like a good idea. He’s wondering why, now, as he stumbles around like a newborn deer with wheels strapped to his feet and nothing between his head and the hard surface of the floor (Eddie was smart; Eddie insisted on getting a helmet and forced Richie to wear one, too, and the rest of them -- being morons, apparently -- scattered before he could catch them).

In _hindsight,_ this was a terrible idea. He’s going to be trapped here until someone takes pity on him.

This isn’t much different than the first couple times he tried out Eddie’s skateboard and found himself thrown headfirst into the brush at the roadside, or skidding along the pavement, scraping the hell out of his arms and legs. Not much different, except that dismounting isn’t an option, here. He’s tied into the quad skates and his only options for getting them off are to either fall down and hope for the best, or get off the rink so he can find a bench to sit on while he unties them.

He resigns himself to just… standing here, at least for now, just trying not to split his skull open or break any bones. On the far side of the rink he can see the flash of Bev’s red hair between the heads of other skaters, and up ahead, passing by him but oblivious to his predicament, the obnoxious green-and-yellow of the helmet Richie (half-reluctantly) picked out from the shelf. As he watches, it dips down suddenly and disappears, but there’s a roar of laughter from over that way and a definite dull ache in Mike’s knee; one of the duo must have landed hard, but they don’t sound bothered by it.

There’s a beat of silence from the overhead speakers as the jukebox rolls over to the next song, and King Harvest’s hit single shatters it on its opening notes just as Mike startles at the feeling of hands on his arms.

“You stuck or something, Mikey?” Bill is asking on his left side, while Stan’s fingers curl around his right wrist, and suddenly he’s moving, gliding forward, and that fear of taking a spill dissipates just like that.

“Trying not to fall, Big Bill,” Mike says, and mirrors his teasing smile.

“Falling’s half the fun.”

Stan scoffs. “Says you. You never fall, Bill. Not even the first time you try things.”

“Not true,” Bill says, but Mike can sense him riffling around in his memories for some good examples of how _not true_ that is and coming up empty-handed, because the fact of the matter is that Bill Denbrough is just preternaturally _good_ at things without much thought or effort.

“Don’t worry so much about falling,” Stan tells him, and truthfully Mike isn’t anymore -- it must have always been this easy to point his toes in the direction he wanted to go, and he just didn’t realize. His feet aren’t trying to escape from under him now, and whether that’s because he’s got support on either side, or because he stopped focusing so hard on _keeping_ them under him, he can’t say.

They wheel him along between them right into the flow of traffic, and even then Mike isn’t worried; Bill’s always seemed to have that effect on them all. He knows Stan feels it, too. Even when Bill is being ridiculous (he’s nearly as good at that as Richie, somehow) he’s got something about him that makes people trust him. Makes people relax around him.

So when he starts bopping and jiving to the music, jostling their little chain and making them swerve from their path, Mike isn’t bothered. He catches Stan’s eye and they share a little grin and then Mike’s rocking his shoulders, too, and his skates wobble side-to-side but he’s not going down anytime soon. Stan and Bill have him covered.

“You’re doing better, if it means anything, but chances are we can attribute that to Bill’s presence,” Stan says dryly as they glide smoothly around the curve marking the far end of the rink, sandwiched between a family with several small, rowdy children, and a couple holding hands, heads bowed together as they speak quietly to each other. Mike tears his gaze away from watching the girl tuck her dark hair behind her ear as she tips her head back to laugh at something, the boy grinning widely at her reaction. They’re all travelling at roughly the same pace, and when he turns to look at Stan, one of the little kids on their other side waves at him.

He can’t wave back, but he bumps on shoulder up awkwardly and smiles, which sets the little pig-tailed girl giggling as she trips over her own feet and is only saved from being sent sprawling by her grip on her mother’s pant leg.

_‘You think maybe Bill’s uncanny ability to master the art of roller skating is rubbing off on the rest of us?’_ he asks, mostly joking, but unfortunately not quietly enough.

Richie’s voice floods his mind, all cheek as he replies, _‘God, ew, Bill is doing what now? Mister Denbrough, I thought we already had the talk? Keep the rubbing off behind closed doors, or a spanking is in store.’_

_‘Richie, I promise I will kill you if you don’t shut up,’_ Bill seethes (Mike watches red creep up his face) in the same moment Ben, scandalized, cries, _‘Beep-beep, Richie!’_

There are the distant sounds of Eddie scolding Richie, half-aloud and half-mentally, and Stan’s rolling his eyes so hard Mike can _feel_ it, and he goes warm all over. Warm right around his heart, especially. Stan’s hand on his wrist slips down to grab at his fingers instead, and he squeezes, just subtly, and Mike goes even _warmer,_ if possible.

Because this is _it._ These are his people. His _forever._ He can’t begin to know what the future has in store, but he knows they’re all going to be involved in some way, and they’re going to be involved _closely_ if he has any say in the matter. As if the telepathy didn’t tell them that clearly enough -- that they’re stuck with each other for life.

That Mike gets to have this for _life._

He’ll get his little trips with Stan to birdwatch, sitting still and quiet for hours and just enjoying the company. He’ll get first drafts of little stories, bundled in Bill’s arms when he appears on his front step, and lying in the shade of an old oak to help him revise. He’ll get to trade books with Ben and bring him up to the attic to show him all his parents’ and grandparents’ old stuff. The _interesting_ stuff. The old photo albums and the antique appliances and the weaponry -- or remnants thereof -- saved from a few wars. Stuff that makes Ben light up with questions. He’ll get (and he’ll never tire of) a lifetime of Beverly handing him notebooks full of drawings of himself, and trips to thrift stores, and sitting on the couch watching TV or reading aloud to her while she takes things in or hems or just altogether sews new clothes up for him to try on.

With the way things are going, he’s almost convinced he’ll also be subjected to a lifetime of Richie and Eddie dancing around each other, neither daring to make the first move. He’s got this tentative spark of hope in his chest that once they’re out of this damn town, Eddie might finally break out of that shell, or whatever it is that keeps him so… _dulled,_ and maybe come to his senses on the matter. If Richie can’t be bothered to do it first.

And maybe he won’t get a whole lifetime of it, but he’s at least got a few more months of helping hands at the farm and bonfires in the yard (Bill’s been learning to play the guitar and Mike will admit he’s looking forward to seeing it brought out around the fire at twilight). He’s maybe got a year or so of six or seven bodies piling in through the front door, maybe shedding wet winter gear, to settle in for some tea or hot chocolate and to watch a couple movies or tell a couple scary stories or break out one of the few board games his grandpa keeps under the TV cabinet.

He _hopes,_ with all his heart, that there _is_ a lifetime in store for them wherein he can bring them back here on school breaks or holidays and celebrate with them like a family

_(they’re his **family)**_

with all the warmth and completeness he’s felt missing for most of his life. Just him and grandpa has been _fine,_ don’t get him wrong, but it’s often quiet.

And while there’s certainly nothing wrong with occasional quiet, he doesn’t think he’d ever trade _this_ for it.

_ Karma Chameleon _

It’s like getting gut-punched, except with love, and a fondness that’s almost debilitating, and it’s all he can do to squeeze Mike’s hand where it’s slipped into his and tell him, “We luh-love you too, Mikey.”

Which just makes him smile so big it must hurt, and Bill reflects it easily, and he can’t say he doesn’t understand precisely how Mike is feeling.

There’s a flash of warm orange light across their faces and faintly, Bill can hear the opening chords of _Karma Chameleon_ tearing from the speakers connected to the jukebox. Stan rolls his eyes and sighs.

_‘Don’t be a hypocrite,’_ Bill chides, and Stan doesn’t so much threaten to trip him verbally as he sends him a mental image of Bill falling on his “dumb” face right smack in the middle of the rink, and Bill shoots back, _‘C’mon, Stan, think of Mike. Who will support him when I’m gone?’_

Mike throws his head back and laughs raucously, catching both of them off guard, and when he realizes several heads have turned in their direction he snaps his mouth shut, still unable to contain a smile, and says, _‘Sorry, I’m just…’_ There’s a pensive pause, then a confident, _‘I’m just happy.’_

_‘Aw, Mikey, you’re melting my heart over here,’_ Richie interjects, because _of course _he does, and Bill makes a motion as if to swat him away with his free hand.

_‘Go bother Eddie.’_

_‘He’s already bothering me. You can have him.’_

Richie’s melodramatic meltdown over that can be heard clear across the rink, and Bill has a keen enough eye to catch the fond (and terribly knowing) smile on Stan’s face even as he turns away from them.

“Come on, Mike,” he encourages, glancing down at their feet, his own gliding along surely, a _tap-wrrr_ as he leans his weight onto one foot then the other, in contrast to the continuous whirring of Mike’s own two skates, planted equally firmly on the floor. A fine method for someone supported on either side by a reliable friend, but not likely to get him anywhere if they were to let go. Except, of course, to the wall, and Bill’s got a feeling Mike’s as confident using the stoppers on the toes of the skates as he is in his ability to stay upright, which is to say, not at all.

Between himself and Stan, surely they’re going to figure out a way to teach Mike to steer -- and, by extension, not crash into any walls or (God forbid) people -- and to not fall and hurt himself.

“You gotta move your feet instead of letting us steer you like this.”

“Is this fucking _Karma Chameleon?”_ Stan asks abruptly, and Bill doesn’t even have to look to see the half-assed glare he’s receiving.

“Don’t be a hypocrite, Stan, I know it was you who put Cyndi Lauper on the Jukebox.”

“What’s wrong with Cyndi Lauper?” Mike asks, innocently enough, and Bill puts a hand on his forearm as if reassuring him.

“Nothing, Stan’s just under the impression that he has the superior music taste between the two of us.”

What he expects is for Stan to reply with an indignant, “I _do,”_ as he always does when they have this “argument.” Which he _does,_ planting his free hand on his hip in a gesture that rivals Eddie in levels of sass conveyed and huffing, with the added flare of turning his nose up. Bill _doesn’t_ expect Mike to contribute, but he _does,_ and in the same moment Stan defends his music taste to the audience of two, Mike agrees solemnly, “He does.”

“Ah,” Bill says, and then not much else for a couple seconds. Mike’s clearly fighting a smile, and Stan’s got his face turned away again, but Bill’s far enough in his head to know he’s trying not to laugh. “Okay. I see how it is. Mike, I’m sorry, I don’t teach traitors how to skate.”

The dam bursts and Mike makes a sputtering sound as a laugh bursts out of him anyway, breaking through all his attempts to contain it. “No, I’m serious!” Bill insists, even though he’s unable to stop a grin from spreading across his own face. “This is _slander!”_

Richie and Eddie go flying past them in a sudden and indistinguishable blur, and honestly, Bill would have just assumed they were a couple of random idiots looking to get themselves hurt if he couldn’t hear Eddie yelling at Richie to slow down, and if Richie didn’t holler, “Big Bill, your music taste is _shit!”_ on the way by.

“Thank you for your support!” Stan calls after him.

_‘You guys are assholes.’_

_‘Assholes with good music taste,’_ Richie shoots back from somewhere far ahead of them already (he can still hear Eddie yelling at him as they zip down the rink at Mach 5), at the same time Bev says, _‘You love us anyway.’_

But he does. He really, _really_ does, so much sometimes he doesn’t know what to do with it all. Mike’s right to refer to them as a family. Bill wouldn’t take it any other way. The Losers’ Club is his family, and he’ll be damned if they aren’t going to stick together as long as he can _make_ them stick together. It would seem, based on everyone else’s feelings on the matter, that that’ll be _forever,_ or maybe even longer than forever.

Bill keeps these thoughts to himself, something unbearably tender blooming deep in his chest, a flood of affection so overwhelming he’s afraid he might drown in it. He’s sure if he voiced it aloud, Richie would say something stupid like, _“Families who kill sewer clowns together, stay together,”_ or any other statement of equal absurdity, and he’s also sure he’d love him all the more for it.

_ Dancing Queen _

It’s probably not the _appropriate_ emotion, but Bev’s still almost _elated_ to know that that _feeling_ Eddie gets sometimes isn’t because he’s _hurt._ It’s because he’s _sick._ And that isn’t better, technically, but it means that his mom doesn’t hurt him, and she’d worried herself into knots over it for nothing. That doesn’t excuse her weird, overbearing, controlling behaviour, but it’s good to know Eddie isn’t in any danger. His mom is just a little, as the kids put it, “kooky”, and she goes overboard when it comes to protecting her son.

It makes sense that Eddie would experience _fear_ when he’s sick, because his mom made him _so afraid_ of being sick, all his life, and that probably wasn’t her intention but, hell, no one is a perfect parent. She’s a little bit farther from “perfect” than most, but she isn’t like Bev’s dad. She doesn’t hurt her kid for every little mistake, or just for the sake of hurting him, and now Bev feels almost guilty knowing that she’d judged Sonia Kaspbrak so fucking harshly because she was, what? Projecting her own life experiences onto her friends?

Sure, Mrs. Kaspbrak is a bitch to them (to be fair, they actually _did_ endanger her only child’s life on several occasions), and _sure,_ she needs to loosen the goddamn leash a little -- let him _breathe,_ maybe. But she’s not _actively_ hurting him. She’s just way too damn protective and it’s making him miserable and she can’t _see_ that, because for some reason grown-ups like to exist in this delusion where they’re always _right._ Wherein they can’t do any wrong, and they know _best,_ and sometimes what they think they know isn’t the best, after all. Eddie needs freedom like all teenagers do. Eddie needs to _run_ and get dirty and eat junk food and laugh so hard he stops making any sound at all. He needs to stay out past dark and try new things, like learning to ride a skateboard, and he needs to take risks and get hurt and stand up to his mom. He needs things like _this,_ like spending the day in a different town, with his closest friends, doing something that scares him (in its own strange way -- Bev doesn’t see the problem with the skates, personally, but she knows he’s got some weird thing about germs, much the same as Stan). And having fun with it. That’s important.

There isn’t a trace of misery around him as he and Richie stumble over each other around the rink, having made little progress in their attempts at figuring out what the hell they’re doing. But they’re laughing, and the feeling between them is bright yellow and warm like sunshine, and _that’s_ the thing that Mrs. Kaspbrak is just missing altogether.

That people don’t thrive on isolation and loneliness and fake medicine and being watched like a damn hawk. They thrive on _this._ Companionship and adventure. Risk-taking and learning to laugh at their failures. Listening to their favourite songs in dimly-lit rooms full of strangers who are all here for the same silly reasons.

“Why’d you go all blank?” Ben asks, and Bev startles so hard she damn near topples over backwards.

His hands in hers are what stops her from falling, and she knows then that he’s able to handle this on his own from here on out, but she finds herself strangely reluctant to let go. “I… sorry, I was just thinking…”

Ben glances over his shoulder towards where she was just staring, and a smile softens his eyes. “They’re happy,” he says, as though she couldn’t already tell. “It feels nice. It’s nice to be around them when they’re like this.”

“I’m _glad_ they’re like this. It feels like hell’s frozen over whenever they aren’t getting along.”

“I feel like I’m standing too close to the sun just _looking_ at them.”

Bev throws her head back and laughs at that, and she can see, feel, _and_ hear Ben laughing right alongside her. Her fingers, where they're tangled with his, tighten their grip. She can’t tell if he squeezes back, but she’s almost positive he does. When she looks at him he’s already got his eyes on her, but there’s none of that usual intensity men and boys usually look at her with. He’s just gone all totally soft, probably courtesy of the two boys stumbling past them like giggling idiots, all wrapped up in each other, unaware of any of the people around them. Richie slips down, landing hard on one knee, and Eddie falls right over him, laughing the whole way down, and there’s no way on God’s green earth those morons are coming out of this unscathed (and no way on God’s green earth that they actually give a shit about that).

She’s already had the conversation with Ben and Mike, about Eddie maybe being… well, just fine. Maybe not _perfect_ (again, Sonia Kaspbrak is _not_ the ideal parent) but far better off than she thought he was. She can tell without asking that Ben’s thinking of that, too, as they overtake the Richie-and-Eddie jumble that’s sprawled on the floor, too busy laughing to stand up again. Richie’s trying to encourage them to get moving again with the vocal talents of Toodles the English Butler, but he’s only making the predicament worse because Eddie is just fucking _howling_ at this point.

“Yeah,” she says without requiring any prompting from Ben, and she can’t help the soft feeling and the bright grin that comes with proximity to the dynamic duo. “I think he’ll be alright.”

“‘Course he will,” Ben agrees easily. “He’s _Eddie._ He’s tough as nails.”

Bev has to spend a few seconds thinking about what a _damn sweetheart_ Ben is, and how pretty his eyes are (and she keeps those thoughts tucked close to her chest so no one else can listen to them). How nice it feels to just casually touch him like this, and how all good things must come to an end.

_(or she could keep pretending she doesn’t realize he’s able to stay upright on his own, and they could stay like this until it’s time to leave)_

But she isn’t going to be selfish about it. Ben’s a big boy. He can have some independence. That, and she doesn’t want to come across as overwhelming.

“Think you’re okay on your own?” she asks, glancing pointedly at their joined hands. “I’m not gonna go anywhere,” she adds as an afterthought, in case Ben thinks she wants to get away from him. “I’ll be here in case you fall.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to slow you down.”

Slowly (reluctantly), they let go of each other, and as she watches him continue to glide smoothly across the floor even without her support, she gets that same feeling Richie and Eddie radiate, but all from her own self, and it swells up out of her in a quick, sharp chuckle and a gentle elbow to his side while she falls into place beside him. “Nah, I like hanging out with you, Haystack. I could keep myself entertained, anyway.” To prove this, she dips one toe towards the ground to slow her pace, twists on the other heel, and loops around behind him, effectively skating a circle around him, then another.

“You’re just showing off,” Ben says, and he’s smiling at her with colour high on his cheeks, _teasing_ her. Teasing her _back,_ at least, and Bev doesn’t know why it ever surprises her that Ben Hanscom can give as good as he gets. Maybe ‘cause he’s generally so sincere, and he’s so damn good at _pretending,_ when he teases, that it’s hard to distinguish from the real thing.

She bites, anyway, because there’s not much better than hanging out with Ben (she hadn’t been lying) and because she’s always on the lookout for a chance to banter with him, the same way Richie is always looking for a chance to be touching Eddie. She blows him a kiss on her way by the third time and says, in a light tone, “Bet your ass I am. I don’t spend every other weekend tearing up the rink at the _Wheels_ back in sweet old Portland just to be a dud, Benjamin.”

She thinks maybe it’s one of the most beautiful sounds she’s ever heard when Ben laughs, unabashedly, eyes squeezing shut under the force of it. He stumbles and Bev is quick to grab onto him, to keep him steady and upright, but it’s too late -- gravity is already working her magic against them, facilitated by the wheels that only ever want to slide right out from under their feet, and Bev slams her funny bone onto the floor as she goes down, having been, for once, entirely unprepared to take a fall. Or, rather, too busy trying to keep Ben from getting hurt as _he_ fell. The static sensation that zaps through her arm like a shockwave leaves her fingers tingling and rips a strange noise from her throat, some sort of half-groan, half-wheeze, before the feeling subsides and her attention flips right back to Ben.

He looks ready to apologize because this is Ben, so of _course,_ he does, and Bev’s clutching her elbow and gaping because she _didn’t expect that to happen,_ but when Ben actually opens his mouth to say something, Bev cuts him off. “Oops,” she says plainly. A smile plays around her lips. Ben mirrors it.

Before she knows it, she’s laughing so hard she’s _snorting,_ which should be embarrassing as hell, but she _swears_ it’s like affection overflows from Ben as she slaps her hands over her face to muffle the sound. “Oh my god,” she says, muffled, cutting herself off with more laughter. “I’m so sorry, Ben, are you--?” But, no, she can’t finish the sentence, because Ben’s mirth is flooding through her (or that’s her own, reflected back at her) and this is _just_ how it felt passing Richie and Eddie a couple minutes ago, and her heart rate picks up thinking _that._ Richie and Eddie radiate a kind of potent love Bev thinks very few people ever encounter in their lifetimes, yet here she is, that exact-- dare she say it? That exact _feeling_

_(love)_

sitting plain as day in the bond that stretches solely between herself and Ben. She’s always known, to some extent, that Ben harboured _feelings_ for her, but lately has found herself wondering whether they still exist at all, or if they’ve taken on the same softer hue of a kid-crush, or just altogether been set aside in favour of other pursuits (like _who,_ Bev?) as the years went by.

Ben’s stopped laughing, now, same as her, and she doesn’t mean for her voice to shake as she offers to help him back to his feet, or to _stumble_ on her way up, nearly falling all over again. _I think if he kissed me right now I might actually melt, right down onto the floor,_ she thinks privately, in a small enclosed space in her own mind, where no one else is allowed to hear it.

But it would be the _happiest_ kind of melting, wouldn’t it?

_ Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go _

Eddie concedes to some time in the arcade not because Richie insists he’s going to “completely fucking obliterate” the _Street Fighter_ game, but because he’s got a fair few bruises blooming all over his body and there’s a snap of clarifying fear when he lets himself remember that his mom will _see_ those, one way or another, and she’d probably chain him to his bedpost for the rest of the summer if she thinks he’s been doing anything remotely dangerous.

Eddie doesn’t want to lose summer, too. He feels more like himself than he has in _months._ He hadn’t realized what a toll separating himself (in every way he could) from the other Losers would take on him. Like six matching voids had made homes in his chest and sucked out all his energy and all his happiness and left _black._

Maybe his mom doesn’t realize, either, how horrible it makes him feel to be apart from them, now that he’s sure he’s gotten over that sick feeling from being around them. Somehow it’s worse, anyway, to be separated from his friends, than he thinks it ever would be to feel sick and afraid and _out of it_ in their presence.

He’d take nausea over that gaping blackness any day.

But she wouldn’t understand, anyway. He could tell her, and she’d have a million responses lined up, a million reasons why he shouldn’t feel that way. A million reasons “those rough boys” are bad for him, or “that nasty girl” is going to wrongly influence him, and why his mother, and only his mother, is good enough for him.

He thinks the Losers are plenty good for him, too. He dares say they’re _better_ for him than--

But, no, he shouldn’t think things like that. That makes him ungrateful. That makes him a terrible son and a cruel one to boot.

He can be better. He can be better, and he can still try to fill up that void even while keeping his mother placated. He’s _sure_ he can. Somehow. Some way.

It’s summer, now, and he isn’t in school all day so she can’t complain he’s never around to spend time with her, right? The break’s only just begun and already she relented when Bill came to the door, though he hadn’t left much room for negotiation and had all but dragged Eddie from the house.

He dares to hope she’s forgotten her threats, since there’d been no call to 911 when Bill showed up.

_(but it was **just** Bill and she tolerates Bill better than she does most of the others and Sharon Denbrough practically helped raise him but **god** if it had been Richie or Bev or Mike at the door he’d be screwed, completely fucking screwed)_

With no school and no track practice to eat up his free time, he’s sure he can sneak off once in a while under the guise of going for a walk or getting some air or spending some time at the Community House.

“I wanna go to the clubhouse,” he says before he realizes he’s speaking.

“What, like, right now?” Richie looks up from where he’s unlacing his skates, his glasses balanced precariously on the end of his nose. “I hate to break it to you, but we’re in a whole different town at the moment.”

“No.” Eddie blushes fiercely even though he knows Richie’s just fucking with him. “No, I mean like, sometime soon.” He hasn’t been there since… _well._ “Maybe sometime next week.”

“Oh,” says Richie. “Uh, you gonna need someone to defeat the dragon and rescue you from your tower, or…?”

“No, dipshit. I’m just saying, I want to hang out with you guys there again. I miss it.” _More than he can put into words,_ though a big part of that “missing it” is probably tied to the Losers themselves. “Plus Bev’s back in town for the summer now and I just, I dunno, I think we should do something together.”

Richie’s quiet for a moment, then a sly grin crawls across his face. “You wanna recreate Halloween of ninety-two, you mean?”

The blush returns with a vengeance, dizzying in its force, and Eddie _tries_ not to think about _almost_ kissing him, or the way he’d imagined Richie smiling down at him as he dozed with his head on his lap, or the hazy-warm sensation all through his body as Richie breathed smoke into his lungs for him. That’s just _too much_ at once, and the residual nausea tries to creep back in

_(look what he did to you)_

turning his stomach, but he bites down on it

_(all his fault)_

fiercely until his head is clearing and the _sick_ goes away and it’s just him and Richie and nothing bad between them.

“I wanna hang out with everyone ‘cause I feel like I’ve been missing out, is all,” he tries to tell him, though it comes out more gloomy than he’d intended.

Missing out hadn’t been entirely his own idea, after all. There’d been a _catalyst,_ and a falling out, too, and a conditioned response he’s only just begun to unlearn.

Richie perks up suddenly, eyes darting to the ceiling, and the flash of giddiness is unmistakable. “Aw, you shouldn’t have!” he teases, reaching across the space between the benches to poke Eddie’s side as _Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go_ starts up around them. “Did you choose this just for me, ‘cause you know it’s my favourite to annoy you with?”

Eddie lunges across the way to jab him right back, probably catching him too hard in the ribs if the grunt Richie lets out is any indication. “I liked Wham! First, asshole.”

“Be that as it may, you _know_ this song is my favourite.”

_“Faith_ is your favourite.”

Richie fumbles with that one for a moment, then puffs himself up importantly and lifts his chin as he says, “I am a man of taste, and should not be faulted for my inability to do something _trivial_ like ‘choose favourites.’” He blinks himself back to the slouching, gangling teenager he truly is, facade abandoned, to add, “What the fuck is that, anyway? ‘Favourites.’ George Michael is a national treasure. I’m allowed to like everything he does.”

“A national treasure? Richie, he’s from England.” Eddie tries to hide it, as he often does, but a giggle rolls through his chest, audible even as he covers his mouth with his hand.

“And I’m sure the English treasure him almost as much as I do.” Richie laces up his converse, a wry smile on his lips, and holds a hand out to Eddie to help him off the bench. Eddie tucks his skates under his arm and accepts the proffered hand. Beyond Richie, in the dimness of the rink and the erratic lighting that traces through the crowd, Eddie can see a few bodies bopping along to the music, including Bev and Ben, who he’s not surprised to note are holding hands again, spinning in circles and weaving between other people. They duck behind a crowd of kids roughly the same age as the Losers and are gone.

There’s a sensation left trailing behind them, so clear in his mind Eddie can almost see it, of golden-bright affection that squeezes around his own heart. Not painfully. No, he’s happy for them. What they have is _good._

It’s _simple._

The extent of the complications they’re dealing with are distance-related.

_(maybe that **squeeze** was a little envious, too)_

He follows along easily as Richie pulls him back to the counter to drop off their skates, then back across the room to the arcade sprawling in the open corner. It’s a zoo of lights and noise once they’re moving between the machines, kids darting past them at elbow-height and crowds of boys shouting and jostling each other around the games. There are two separate _Street Fighter_ cabinets set up side-by-side _(Street Fighter_ and _Street Fighter II)_, which has Richie agog, because _what the fuck kind of stellar fucking arcade just has space and money for both fucking games?_ Which probably says a lot about the petiteness and shittiness of Derry in general, by comparison. Even the little arcade crammed into the same building as a roller rink manages to have better shit than shithole Derry.

“You kick some ass on that one and I’ll try to beat the high score on this one,” Richie offers, already pressing change into the palm of Eddie’s hand.

In the end, Eddie doesn’t get much accomplished besides staring at Richie for an embarrassing amount of time and probably managing to get the _lowest_ score on any video game _ever_, owing to his “distraction”.

Richie switches cabinets with him once he’s satisfied with his legacy on the first. ‘_RLT,’_ Richie saves the score on the first game under, and then _‘ASS,’_ on the second, which he has a good chuck about.

Eddie could honest-to-god do this all day if he asked. Just watch him have fun and laugh over the word “ass” with him like they’re eight years old again and the funniest people on the planet, by their own assessment.

But good things don’t last forever, no matter how desperately Eddie wishes they would, and he’s abruptly reminded that _home_ is a place that still exists when Bill comes strolling up to their game (they’ve moved to _Mario Bros._ because Eddie’s actually decent at that one, and Richie stands close beside him and occasionally puts his hand over Eddie’s on the controls and makes his heart _leap;_ no nausea, no fear, just a warm, delicate thrumming in his veins). There’s a sheen of sweat on Bill’s forehead and an immutable smile pulling at his lips. Stan and Mike are following not too far behind him, Bev and Ben distracted by _Blockout_ before they could get three steps into the arcade area.

“You guys about ready? Muh-Mike says we gotta head out soon if we wanna get back before it’s dark.”

“Yeah, lemme just get Eds through this level. This fucking Slipice is giving us a bitch of a time.” Richie’s commandeered his controls again, which is fine -- is _more_ than fine, actually. He’s pressed bodily to Eddie and he _knows,_ he knows he should move over just a bit, just to put an inch or so of space between them, but for what?

It’s not as if his mother has eyes _here,_ to spy on him and his interactions with the friends he isn’t even allowed to have. It’s not as if any of the other kids or teens drawn into the bright lights and flashing colours of the games is going to look too close and draw the conclusion that one of them’s a faggot just because they’re playing a game together.

He lets Richie’s fingers close over his on the joystick and take over play for both of them, only participating enough to jump when Richie asks him to, because his brain goes all fuzzy when he’s touching him like this, and he’s completely fucking hopeless, isn’t he?

Richie and Bev make them all stop for a smoke break outside before they make the drive home, so Eddie stands an appropriate distance away (after chastising them for ruining their lungs, as per usual) while they all hover in a circle and chat.

Talk turns to college. Eddie doesn’t want to think about that too much yet, even though it really is only a few months until they have to start thinking _seriously_ about where to apply. It doesn’t take being psychic (ha) to tell that his mom is _not_ going to like him going away for college. He can’t exactly fault her for that -- it’s got to be scary, sending your only child out into the wide world, where anything could happen, and just… hoping for the best. She has difficulty when he’s out of her sight for _one night,_ let alone months at a time.

And besides, she _needs_ him. She can’t do much around the house herself anymore, and her health can only go downhill from here, and she’s always reminding how she couldn’t live without him so what’s he to do? _Abandon_ her?

No -- he does not want to think about it, thank you very much, let alone discuss it with his friends who are all free to go off and do whatever the hell they want after high school. Get jobs, get degrees, buy houses, do… _grown-up_ stuff, like get married.

(It’s hard to imagine any of them being _married,_ and he almost pulls a face at the thought.)

Except, of course, he _does_ get sucked into the conversation, because they’re discussing all the different colleges in and around Portland and how _easy_ it would be for all of them to get the education or the jobs they want and to stay together and… his heart _aches_ thinking of them all leaving together to live in Portland, leaving him behind in Derry with his mother (that’s not _fair,_ that’s not fair to her, she’s his _mother_ and she only loves him and he can’t resent her for her flaws because she’s _blood, _she’s _family)._ And _of course,_ Bill asks him, _‘What kind of program would you be interested in? Something in engineering?’_ because they need to look into what’s available around where they’re planning to live, _apparently, _and he doesn’t _want_ to tell them, _I think I’ll just stay in Derry and take care of my ailing, overbearing mother who tries to make me take pills I don’t want and thinks I’m sick because I’m gay, and I’ll probably just get murdered for being a fucking faggot, so just leave me there to die, thanks._ But… that would be the gist of it if he was _really_ trying to be a sarcastic bitch about the whole thing.

He’s saved (if you would call it that) by a series of whistles from across the parking lot. All the eyes on him turn in that direction, to the group of shirtless men a few years older than them lounging on the tailgate of a pickup, a cooler of beer propped open on the asphalt at their feet, and what Eddie suspects are probably not cigarettes hanging from their lips. “Lookin’ good, sugar lips!” one of them calls, waving pointedly at Bev.

Eddie’s about to get angry on her behalf. Actually, that’s a lie. He _does_ get angry, because she’s barely seventeen and these fucking creeps look like they’re all at _least_ twenty, and in some small way, because looking at sweaty shirtless men makes him a little bit nauseated after his mother’s “treatments” with her porny magazines (so maybe some of the anger is for _himself,_ too, for being subjected to having to look at them, which is _stupid,_ he’s pretty sure). He’s just opening his mouth to tell them to fuck off and stop being perverts who wolf-whistle at _kids,_ maybe to put some fucking shirts on and stop being public eyesores, but Richie beats him to the punch.

Being closest to Bev, he takes a small step forward (effectively putting her behind him, which none of them miss) and gives dainty little twirl, the leather jacket he’s got slung over his shoulder ‘cause it’s too fucking hot to wear it whipping around, before dropping into a mocking curtsy. “Well, boys, I gotta say I’m flattered. I knew the ripped jeans would really do it. Shows off just the right amount of skin, y’know. Unfortunately, you don’t quite look like my type.” He waves a hand vaguely, appraising them openly for a moment before shrugging and adding, “Unless the hicktown asshole straight guy look is just a cover for the fact that you like taking it up the ass.”

A lot of things happen at once. Shock and amusement crash together in equal parts from all members of the Losers club; Bev starts laughing while Stan starts trying to reprimand Richie for being reckless; Eddie gets this sick feeling deep in his stomach and for a second the world tilts around him while he tries not to remember the last time he heard that kind of crude phrasing used (directed towards _him);_ there’s a roar of rage from the gaggle of jackasses having their little jackass tailgate party right in front of a family-friendly public facility; and a beer bottle sails through the air and smashes at their feet, sending shards flying everywhere and making all the Losers jump back to avoid being hit.

When Eddie looks up, panic from that tiny flash of memory _(a polished blade glinting in the sun)_ sending his heart into overdrive, beating against his ribcage quick like a rabbit’s, two of the strange men are advancing on them and on instinct he puts his hands against the backs of the people closest to him and starts pushing them towards the truck. There’s no fucking way they’re about to get in a fight with these jerks -- he could name a multitude of reasons why he isn’t going to let that happen, not least because they’re all bigger and older than all of the Losers and he’s not interested in a trip to the hospital today, not even if he isn’t the one requiring medical attention. “Go!” he says, urging them along, and everyone seems to have gotten the message because they all start piling into the bed of the truck while Mike hops into the driver’s seat and starts it up.

Richie, because he has zero self-control and never knows when to stop, stands up as they peal out of the parking lot (Eddie reaches up to grab his leg because _holy fuck Jesus Christ he’s gonna fucking fall if he does that)_ and grabs obscenely at his crotch with one hand while he flips them off with the other. “Sorry you missed out, boys!”

Another beer bottle explodes against the side of the truck and he drops down to avoid the spray. “Sorry, Mikey!”

“It’s fine!” Mike calls back as Richie sits up and turns to Bev.

“You alright?” he asks, like he didn’t just cause total chaos with his Trashmouth tendencies.

Bev’s eyes are _dancing,_ sparkling with mirth, as she says, “Richard Leslie Tozier, you are fucking insane and I love you for that.”

Richie throws an arm over her shoulder to drag her in close and press an exaggerated kiss to the top of her head. “Ah loves yuh, too, Miss Ringwald!” he croons, while Bev howls with laughter, and then it’s catching around Ben’s chest and he’s laughing, too, and then Bill, and then they’re all sprawled out on the bed of Mike’s pickup, clutching at their stomachs, the scent of beer ripe in the air. He forgets all about the memory he’d accidentally conjured up, of Victor Criss pinning him to the ground with an arm over his throat, of not being able to breathe, of a knife too close to his face for comfort, of the way he’d threatened him and the way Eddie had tried so hard not to cry (but he wasn’t brave enough; he’s never been brave, no matter how hard he wishes he could be). It melts away in a snap, when the laughter catches him, too, and swells big in his chest until he can’t contain it.

Eddie knows that the sense of accomplishment that warms him down to the tips of his fingers is coming from Richie, from watching all his friends experience _joy, _unbound and open and pure, because of _him._

When Richie finally lets go of Bev to put his arm around Eddie instead, he doesn’t bother complaining, just accepts it and lets his head rest on Richie’s shoulder, and if he falls asleep like that, well-- it isn’t anyone’s business but his.

“Eds, hey.” Richie’s hand on his arm squeezes and he’s jostled just enough to shake him out of his comfortable position. “We’re almost at your house. Bill says we gotta let you two out at the corner so he can pretend he was being a gentleman and escorting you home.”

Groggily, Eddie asks, “Why?” but he’s remembered _why_ before he has an answer: he lied to his mom because that’s just what he does best, apparently. “I-- shit, Richie, I gotta give you your birthday present,” is the next helpful thing his half-asleep brain supplies.

There’s something from Richie -- something in a warm orange tone that feels like honey in his throat, that drags a smile up onto his face even if he doesn’t understand -- as he draws up a Voice and says, perhaps too sincerely for the playful attempted-soprano of the Southern Belle, “Aw, darlin’, you went out of your way to get a gift for little ol’ _me?_ Ah’m flattered, truly, ah’m positively _overcome_ with joy.” And shoots Eddie a wink, too, as he adds, “Tell me, darlin’, is it your heart?”

“You’re so--!” Eddie’s very much awake now, and he’s trying _very_ hard not to laugh, and Richie’s arm is still curled over his shoulder -- Eddie still doesn’t have the right word but he’s too busy laughing now, anyway, to finish the thought, so Richie finishes it for him.

“Charming? Handsome? Clever? Speak the truth, Eds, I know it’s in there somewhere.”

It’s _dangerous_ that Eddie likes him so much and that he struggles to contain it. If the feeling leaks out, he doesn’t know how he’ll explain it away. For all the ways that being able to read each other’s minds makes life easier for them, Eddie can count a handful of ways it makes things more difficult (for him, at least).

“I’m sorry I didn’t give it to you before. I was going to… y’know, on your birthday, but…” Eddie trails off but Richie nods and there’s a quiet _‘I know’_ that reaches through to him, and a quieter _‘I’m sorry’_ even though they’ve already been over that.

It reminds him once again what he’s going back to and how little he’ll be seeing of his friends in the near future, because the little bit of mending he managed today was done far from his mother’s influence, and already he feels a thousand times smaller as the truck rattles to a stop a good distance from his house.

“I’ll leave it outside for you, if you want. I can’t… I really gotta stay inside because she’s not gonna be happy I just took off for the whole day, but I can put it out on the windowsill for you,” Eddie says, all in a rush, feeling the reluctant slide of Richie’s forearm slipping off his shoulders.

“Sure thing, Eddie Spaghetti.” He smiles and winks, as he often does, impish and full of teasing, as Bill offers Eddie a hand to climb out of the truck bed.

Bill walks him to the front door and asks his mother how her day was, like a gentleman, and he only stutters once before they part ways and Sonia’s hand is closing around the back of his neck as the door swings shut.

There’s no accusation thrown at him. No indication that she knows the truth. She doesn’t tell him she called Sharon Denbrough to confirm his story or that she saw him and his nasty friends leaving town in Mike’s new pick-up. She just presses a kiss to his temple, asking how his day was, if he and Bill did anything interesting, and, “I have to go to the hardware store tomorrow. That faucet is going to drive me crazy leaking like that. You should come with me. You know better than I do how to fix it. I don’t know _what_ I’d do without you, Eddie. I’d be helpless.” She’s ushering him into the kitchen, pressing him into a chair and shoving a plate in the microwave for him, and Eddie doesn’t protest -- he _is_ hungry, really fucking hungry, and whatever’s on that plate looks like _real_ food. With _actual_ nutritional value.

“I saw in the T.V. Guide that _It’s a Wonderful Life_ will be on later. I thought we could watch it together. Since you’ve been gone all day, and I’ve missed you, after all.”

He _can’t_ say no to her -- she’s _right,_ and he _has_ been out of the house all day, and it’s only fair she gets to spend time with her son when she wants to. So he lets her cart him off to the living room with a plate of hot food. _Proper_ food. No white bread today, not for him. He settles in front of the television and waits for their movie while he eats his lasagna, and it upsets his stomach, probably because it’s too much protein in one meal after going so long without any, but he’s perfectly content to lie on the couch and let his stomach grumble, and reminisce about his day while his mom is absorbed in her show.

She kisses his cheeks, hands gentle around his face for once, while they’re getting ready for bed, and he goes all warm inside. He can _feel_ that she loves him, in that moment. It blooms bright in his chest and he smiles while she tells him, “You’re getting taller, Eddie. Don’t outgrow your mommy too fast, now,” even though she’s still well over a head taller than him.

She closes the door to her room and Eddie tries to grab onto that feeling and hold it close. That motherly love that he’s always chasing. He knows it’s there, it’s just that sometimes he wants to be reminded of it and he isn’t sure how to ask. And sometimes he’s done something _wrong_ and he _knows better_ than to ask.

Even though he was apart from her for the whole day, he thinks as he closes the door to his own room, she didn’t get mad. She’s forgiven him for it, or perhaps (he dares hope) wasn’t upset by it in the first place. Because it’s been so long since she’s had to worry about his friends? It’s been so long since he’s spent any time with them (that she knows of)?

Maybe -- and it’s a dangerous thing; _hope_ \-- but _maybe_ he’s finally earned his freedoms back after that last mistake.

Maybe he can have a real summer break with the Losers, after all.

There’s a package on the top shelf of his closet that’s sat there, collecting dust, since March. It’s gift-wrapped in blue, the sleeve of blank cassette tapes waiting to be opened and fall victim to Richie’s obsession with making mixtapes.

Eddie pries the window open as quietly as possible, setting the package on the sill, and eases it shut. Briefly, he thinks of Richie sneaking by his house in the middle of the night to grab it, and then of him opening the window and coming inside again, and there’s a hot twist of anxiety (and _nausea)_ in his stomach that he _knows_ wasn’t there back in Bangor when Richie had joked about reenacting scenes from _Say Anything._

It must be Derry. Derry must be making him all screwy, and driving him to avoid his friends when he doesn’t even _want_ to. He looks at the scar on the palm of his hand in the low light and tries not to remember the sewers too vividly, but he can’t help but wonder about It -- and It’s influence on them.

* * *


	33. The ass-kicking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie's shift ends in thirty minutes.  
A lot can happen in thirty minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy. Sorry about this one. Shit goes downhill real quick from here on out.
> 
> Warnings for:  
-violence  
-blood  
-head trauma  
-stabbing/cutting with knives  
-hospitals & drugs/medication  
-vomiting  
-Sonia being herself

* * *

August 1993

* * *

Eddie’s shift ends in thirty minutes.

_ A lot can happen in thirty minutes. _

He’s in the middle of an oil change and tire rotation when the other Losers offer to pick up a bundle of college brochures for him. There’s been a rotating cast of them wasting away the afternoon inside the library, looking over course options and photocopying real estate listings from Portland newspapers, trying to find the right schools, the right programs, the right place to live

(the right way to tell your mom you’re moving away for college)

before the application deadlines sneak up on them. Ben and Mike have both taken on jobs as library assistants -- the pay is shit, but for two people who would probably _ live _ there if given the chance, it’s more than enough. Mike’s wrapping up an afternoon of sorting books and stamping late notices before he can join everyone else (he’s been bringing newspapers and college brochures to them between tasks), and then they’re heading out to meet Eddie and try to squeeze in some time together during the miniscule amount of freedom they’ve managed to scrounge together between them.

_ ‘We’ll grab some stuff for both of you,’ _ Ben offers to Eddie and Richie. There’s a sense of the interior of the library, from him and Mike both -- Mike’s in full, sharp clarity, Ben’s accentuated with fondness, tinged dove-grey like the light spilling in from the high windows. _ ‘I know you’ve already got a couple ideas, but it doesn’t hurt to look at a few more schools, and there are course booklets for every school in Portland here.’ _

Richie is just leaving the Aladdin after working an early afternoon shift at the box-office window. He’s got two stolen sodas in the cupholders and a bucket of popcorn on the passenger seat of his hideous green Corvette, and a Loser to pick up from the library on his way to the Center Street Auto Shop. 

_ ‘Do you understand what I mean now about practicality?’ _ Stan is asking as he settles into the passenger seat and moves the popcorn to his lap. He tosses the bundles of paperwork onto the dashboard. _ ‘You can only have one passenger at a time. Ben’s the only smart one here; he’s been looking at station wagons the past couple weeks.’ _

Richie ignores his complaint altogether. They’ve been over this already -- he hadn’t done it for “practicality.” No one gets a car with two fucking seats to be practical. 

He thought it would be cool. Or, he thought _ Eddie _ would find it cool, and that thought process got tangled in the space between them where one thing is indistinguishable from another, as their thoughts often do, and had influenced Richie towards it. Eddie’s pretty sure. It’s hard to tell.

But he has it now, and Eddie tries to hate it but he really can’t complain when the soft-top is down and it’s just the two of them, cruising down the county roads in Derry’s southern reaches, maintaining a precarious balance between the speeds that make Eddie fear for his life and the ones that make giddy excitement-turned-laughter trail behind them all the way. 

He can’t quite argue with Stan’s point about Richie never having more than one passenger, though. It’s hardly convenient when there are _ seven _ of them. 

Unsurprisingly, it’s the Vette that screeches to a stop outside the Auto Shop first, taking up a recently-vacated parking space outside the salon across the street. Richie springs out from the driver’s side without so much as a glance either way to check for oncoming traffic, bounding across the street to pester Eddie, who can see everything through the open garage door. A cold rain is hanging in the air like fine mist, as it has been all day, but the interior of the garage never ceases to be uncomfortably warm (especially not for Eddie, who insists on wearing coveralls even on the most blistering of summer days) so they’ve left the far door open to keep air circulating. He watches Richie narrowly avoid being struck by a passing car, pushing his dampening hair out of his face and loosening the prim little bow-tie he’s made to wear at work, and then he’s in the building, ignorant of all the machinery operating around him, to envelop Eddie in a hug that is _ definitely _ going to stain his work uniform with all kinds of gunk from Eddie’s coveralls. 

Across the way, Stan is using the sense God gave him to wait for a break in traffic before crossing, and instead of sprinting, he walks briskly, hands crammed deep in his pockets to protect his watch from the damp in the air. Mike’s truck, bed loaded with Losers, pulls up behind Richie’s car just as Stan’s making his way through the lot outside the shop. They all tumble out and rush to follow him, all taking as much care to avoid being run over as Richie had (which is to say, none at all). 

_ This _ is the kind of thing that makes Stan and Eddie lock eyes and share a _ look _ , and a thought, that says, _ ‘Seriously, how are they still alive?’ _

“Look at you, Spaghetti Head! What happened to never, ever getting dirty, ever, not even when the fate of the town -- or the entire world -- depends on it?”

Eddie shoves Richie off of him, smearing more dirt and grease on the suit-vest, and sheds the one glove he’s wearing (it’s easier to work with more dexterity in one hand, even if that means “getting dirty,” and Richie damn-well knows that).

Richie, of course, hears him thinking this and his face splits into the very same shit-eating grin that tells Eddie mischief is afoot and that makes his heart jump into his throat. The one he can’t help but return. “You’re in my workspace.”

“You’ve got dirt on your face.”

“I’m going to run you over with this car if you don’t move out of my way.”

Richie pouts at him. “And after I went to the trouble of bringing you popcorn _ and _ a drink, all at the potential expense of my _ very _ lucrative career selling movie tickets and serving nachos.”

“Go get them, then.” Eddie lobs the filthy glove at him and gives the tire pressure a final check while everyone else gathers just inside the doors, well out of the way. They know the drill. He offers a quick wave, not looking to get caught slacking on the job (they can have their hugs and whatever else in ten minutes, when he’s actually done work) and hops into the Astra he’s been working on. Richie, surprisingly enough, actually _ listens _ and heads back outside to retrieve Eddie’s snack and drink for him (and probably to avoid being run over) while Eddie moves the car back out to the lot for its owner to pick it up.

He passes all the rest of the Losers on the way back in, high-fiving Bev when she holds her hand out. She’s leaning against the wall with one foot propped up, a cigarette burning between her lips. “Following your dreams, right?” she says with a wink, and he smiles wide because she’s right and she knows it as well as he does. Bill and Stan are engaged in a thumb war in which Bill is continuously emerging victorious. 

“We got photocopies of everything for you and Richie both. Maybe you can look at them today?” Mike suggests before Eddie disappears into the garage again. He has to go tidy up his workstation and wash his hands (and face) so he can eat the popcorn Richie “stole” (definitely bought with his employee discount). 

He shrugs. “Sure! Are we going to the clubhouse, or is it too miserable for that?”

_ ‘We’re thinking Richie’s house, actually,’ _Mike calls after him, and Eddie waves over his shoulder to indicate he heard.

_ ‘Works for me.’ _

They likely haven’t consulted Richie on the matter, but the answer’s never been no, anyway.

Eddie takes a moment to slide the top of his coveralls off and tie the arms around his waist, enjoying the cool air. His t-shirt is damp with sweat, and he thinks absently that he needs a damn shower before anything else. If they go to Richie’s, at least he can use the shower there.

There’s something like a disturbance. Richie would absolutely make a _ Star Wars _ joke out of that if he overheard Eddie thinking it, or if he wasn’t all the way across the street, or if he wasn’t currently preoccupied with something -- or someone -- else. He can tell it hits Stan first, because he hears him cry out, and as with all things that Stan senses first, it puts them all on high alert. 

Before Stan has even gone quiet again, clutching his head, Eddie feels it, too, and the torque wrench he was putting away slips from his hands and lands, of all places, directly on his foot. He barely registers the shot of pain that resonates up to his ankle, already rushing back out into the rain, already looking frantically for the problem. 

He needn’t look far. Richie’s been intercepted on the sidewalk across the way. Eddie doesn’t understand the urgency, even if it _ is _ Vic Criss he’s talking to. He doesn’t look particularly perturbed about it, hands in his pockets, slouched casually as Vic says something to him -- probably some kind of whimsical threat, or a colourful insult, or a little bit of both. 

Richie responds in kind, as loud and as boisterous as always, “I bet you haven’t showered since you came out of your mom’s vag. I can still smell it on you, and I am _ very _ familiar with her particular aroma.”

They’re out in the open, in a very public place. All the rest of the Losers are here with him, gathering up to make their way over to the standoff taking place. Eddie can’t tell what the fuck the Turtle’s problem is -- it has to be its compulsion driving them forward, after all -- when there’s no clear sign of immediate danger, and Stan is no help because he’s gasping and clutching at his head, and between Bill and Mike he’s still barely remaining upright, but he starts moving faster as Richie laughs and shouts, in a perfect imitation of Al Pacino in his iconic role, “I’m Tony Montana! You fuck with me, you fuckin’ with da best!”

Eddie’s _ sprinting _ without care for oncoming cars just as Belch launches himself around the side of the Vette at speeds he’d otherwise think impossible (Belch is slow, notoriously slow, except apparently, when it comes to matters relating to the element of surprise). Richie goes down hard, facefirst onto the ground, and that, miraculously, does not break his glasses, but what Belch does next certainly does. Vic is jeering, spurring him on, as he grabs Richie’s hair in two fistfuls, draws his head back, and slams it down onto the pavement. Eddie, somewhere in the part of his mind that isn’t a mess of panic, feels the moment of contact as if in slow-motion. Feels his glasses shatter and the shards become embedded in his cheek and forehead. He feels his cheek hit the pavement first, then temple, and the hot rush of blood across his skin. 

Then he’s on Belch, and it isn’t so much that he weighs enough to knock him off-balance as it is that Belch wasn’t expecting him, and they tumble down together to the sound of an enraged scream that leaves Eddie’s throat feeling sore. His hands curl into fists and _ his face hurts _ and he rains blow after blow down on him and _ his head his head it _ ** _hurts_ ** and everything is a haze of white-hot rage, of _ how fucking dare you. _

There’s a tearing pain through his left arm and the haze fades slightly at the sight, smell, _ feeling _ of blood spurting onto the pavement beside him; he draws his fist back to punch Belch again, right on his bloodied, shocked, _ stupid _fucking face, but someone grabs him from behind and hauls him off their bully, still swinging out at nothing. Belch, for his part, snaps out of his daze and high-tails it the fuck out of there.

Eddie has half a mind to chase after him and give him the rest of what he deserves, for having the fucking _ audacity _ to hurt Richie. But that’s the problem, is that Richie is hurt and Eddie needs to make sure he’s alright -- needs to prioritize that over getting revenge.

He has to shove Ben out of the way, which he’d probably feel guilty about under different circumstances. 

“Richie,” he says through a rattling, meagre breath, dropping to his knees so hard he feels the shock of it travel all the way up into his teeth, and Richie doesn’t quite answer him; he makes a noise _ like _ an affirmative, but faded-out and confused, and it sends another gale of pain ripping across his head and driving deeper, under his skull.

Everything he knows about how to deal with injuries -- everything he’s learned from weekends diminished under the high rafters of the library, and the things his mother had told him, and the things he’s just picked up on along the way -- are suddenly, ineffably useless. 

Richie’s _ bleeding. _ He’s bleeding a _ lot. _

(all head wounds bleed a lot, right?)

There could be something hurt inside of his brain, something maybe irreversible, and Eddie doesn’t know if it’s that he’s panicking or that he really just doesn’t know, but he can’t think what to do to fix Richie’s brain, or to keep it from getting hurt more, and he knows sometimes a brain injury can kill you if you aren’t careful, and he _ can’t-- _ he _ refuses _ to imagine that.

Is this why the Turtle was so insistent about getting a warning through to them? Did it see this coming in advance?

There’s blood -- more blood -- welling up around the little splinters of glass embedded in Richie’s cheek, where his glasses lens shattered, and Eddie has the presence of mind to, carefully, oh so carefully, plant one thumb just above his eyelid and lift it to look for glass. Richie’s hazy blue eye rolls up towards him as he does so, and there’s no blood _ in _ his eyes, so evidence of any pieces of his glasses making plans to blind him in that eye (oh the irony; or, if Richie were more coherent in this moment, he’d say “eye-rony” and jab Eddie with his elbow until his façade broke and he laughed). 

One hand twitches closer and then falls limp again, and all at once Eddie can hear that Beverly is crying somewhere behind him, and that people around him are talking loudly, and it’s with startling clarity that he remembers a golden rule of severe injuries: keep them still. He can’t let Richie’s neck (or spine, for that matter) be jostled too much, or he risks further injury, and that thought makes his extremities go cold. 

_ Keep him alert, _ a voice in his head helpfully supplies, and Eddie Kaspbrak is going to do his God-honest best, he thinks, as he watches Richie’s eyelids flutter listlessly.

“Richie, hey.” He sets one hand on Richie’s shoulder as he slips down to lie beside him, and then both those blue eyes open and he’s blinking slowly at Eddie. “I need you to stay awake.”

Until when? Until what? Forever?

Time has become suddenly meaningless and incomprehensible, and whatever the future, the very near future, is supposed to bring feels like a wall of grey, so right now it’s just Eddie and the blood and the slow grin stretching across Richie’s face.

“Sure thing, shweetheart,” Richie says in what Eddie’s pretty sure is his Humphrey Bogart Voice. Or at least, he hopes, because the alternative is that Richie is just so brain-scrambled that he’s slurring like that all on his own. Eddie can’t quite get into his head to figure anything out, and he thinks that’s a bad thing, probably. That’s gotta be bad, and the urge to vomit comes on suddenly and forcefully.

Except, he realizes, the urge isn’t coming from himself, but from Richie, and his ashen skin going slightly green as his eyebrows furrow is the only warning Eddie gets before he’s spewing chunks all over the pavement. Eddie’s got damn good reflexes, though, and he not only springs up to avoid the spray, but he’s already got his hands supporting Richie’s neck and the back of his head

_ (stabilize the neck) _

as his body convulses and he regurgitates his lunch. More of his own blood spills down Richie’s skin and soaks into his hair.

That’s when the rest of everything starts coming through clear. The _ words _ that the voices are forming and the _ future _ time, the very very near future, the inevitability of what a traumatic injury like this has to mean.

He becomes acutely aware of the tears spilling freely down his own cheeks and the many aches and pains jumping out on his body, some of them his own (likely inflicted by Belch or by Criss) some of them surely Richie’s. The warmth of his blood coating his skin. Ben’s hushed voice attempting to reassure Bev despite its own tremulous quality and that _ word, _ that one word in particular being tossed around over his head.

_ Hospital. _

That’s the logical next step. Did they already send someone to call an ambulance? Will one come and take Richie away? Eddie sacrifices one of the hands he’s using for support to reach down and intertwine his own fingers with Richie’s, to squeeze and say to him, “I need you to keep talking,” even through the rapidly-narrowing passageway of his throat. 

This is beyond the scope of even Doctor K’s abilities. 

Richie _ needs _ a hospital.

Eddie’s breathing is short, now, shallow and useless and making him more dizzy than anything. Richie tries to look at him again, even though Eddie knows there isn’t much to be seen without his glasses, which are presently scattered in hundreds of pieces across the pavement. “I sure can. I sure will. Ayup,” he says, distantly, and there’s a little flicker from _ inside, _ less of an audible thought and more of a thought _ shape, _ about some faded memory, a dream of a dream, and the brief _ hurt _ of falling down a flight of stairs but something warm and reassuring just after that. Richie remembers it like it isn’t even his own memory, and it’s blurred like it’s taken from across time, or maybe like he can’t quite nail down the details yet.

Or maybe it’s just like that because his brain is probably swelling up like a balloon in his skull, and then Eddie thinks _ hospital _ again and this time the sick feeling is undoubtedly his own.

Eddie has no good memories associated with hospitals. Just the idea of going makes his skin crawl and his chest go tight, and he often, but not always, will go dizzy with fear, like he is now. Derry Home Hospital is where his mother bugles and bellows and makes him feel smaller than ever, somehow, while doctors and nurses bend to her will and she suffocates him, absolutely _ suffocates _ him. The hospital is where doctors swear it’ll just be a pinch and what you get instead is hot agony. The hospital is where he had his first-ever _ real _ allergic reaction, or where he was taken while it happened, at least -- penicillin. Penicillin that made his skin itch and made breathing feel next to impossible, and made him feverish beyond any other fever he’s had since, and made him cry out for a father who was no longer alive to comfort him. The hospital is where his father died.

It’s where Frank Kaspbrak _ died, _ alone in a bland and impersonal room outside of visiting hours, suddenly but not unexpectedly, while Eddie slept soundly in his own bed at home with plans to visit the next morning and show his dad the model car he finished painting just for him. His dad died, and for weeks after, despite being in the house with her, or even in the same room, his mom felt further away than ever before. And when she did come back to herself, she stuck _ closer _ than ever before, and all but shackled him to his bed to protect him from the dangers of the world. From leaving her just like his dad did. Without that final goodbye, too early and too unfair.

_ “Eddie,” _ Stan is saying, right in his face, as he wheezes and whistles like an over-boiled tea kettle, fingers trembling in Richie’s, and _ what if Richie goes there and he doesn’t come back and we don’t get to say goodbye what if it’s bad what if it’s _ ** _really bad--_ **

“Eddie, you need to breathe.” Stan’s hands are doing something to his arm, which smarts blindingly. The sudden pain wrenches a slightly higher wheeze from his throat, which has obviously swelled shut in what must be a _ true _ asthma attack, because this feels like it’s worse than ever before. “I know you don’t want to go, but you need stitches, okay? You’ll be alright. We’ll go with you. We’re going to go with you and Richie. Alright? We’ll be there for you.”

_ Stitches? _ Eddie thinks hysterically. He doesn’t know anything about stitches. _ Stitches _ aren’t making him scared. Hospitals and dead loved ones and _ losing Richie _ are making him, well… fucking _ terrified. _

“Someone turn Eddie off,” Richie slurs, “he’s reached the boil!” And then he laughs and it comes out disjointed and a sob tears out of Eddie all at once. 

He honest-to-fucking-God doesn’t know what he’d do without Richie. Even the couple months he hardly saw him felt like torture, and he’s so… stupidly fucking _ enamoured _ by him and all his dumb jokes and his _ dumber _ Voices, and how his hands feel on Eddie, and how _ invincible _ he feels around him sometimes. 

“Hey, hey, come on,” someone’s arms wrap around him and he’s tilting sideways until his head is on their shoulder. The hand holding Richie’s grabs _ tighter, _ like he’s expecting to be taken away. _ ‘You’re alright,’ _ Mike reassures. _ ‘He’ll be alright.’ _ Mike doesn’t know that -- _ can’t _ know that -- and Eddie’s not naive enough to believe he’s telling the truth, but he’s just trying to help, and the energy he’s exuding as he holds Eddie against him, cheek pressed to the fabric of his shirt that’s been dampened by the misting rain, is _ calm _ and almost serene despite the circumstances. Eddie’s almost lulled by it. Almost, but his mind is still _ racing _ even as his breathing slows to something more manageable and he begins to feel less like someone’s got a fist around his lungs. 

“I don’t--” Eddie shakes his head just a little against his shoulder. Mike’s fingers card through his hair. “I can’t--”

He doesn’t have a fully realized idea of what he wants to say, just a whirlwind of thoughts leaping and tumbling and occasionally jumping out at him, things like _ hospital _ and _ brain damage _ and _ Victor Criss _ and _ Richie _ and some dark, lumbering thought-shape, a seed of a monster, that wants to tear him to pieces just for the way he feels. Not in this moment, but _ all the time, _ about Richie, or how he used to feel about Bill, and his mother’s potent disapproval envelopes it like tar. Sticky and heavy and trying to suck him in so it can just drag him down with it, and _ fuck, Jesus, _ he can’t do this. He’s getting dizzy.

“Richie, please,” he croaks finally, and feels Richie’s fingers squeeze around his own, even if only the slightest bit. 

“It’s been an honour, Captain,” he says, flashing Eddie that lopsided grin, and Eddie uses the arm that _ hurts _ to scrub away his tears, as Stan protests the movement. He tries to smile back. “I got a bitch of a headache. Sure do. Got any aspirin, Eds?”

Eddie hears sirens somewhere. _ Good. _ That’s _ good, _ even though his limbs go all tense at the sound, and he shuts down that association game his brain wants to play before it can cycle him back to _ hospital _ and _ bad _ and _ death. _ Richie’s eyelids are fluttering strangely, and he asks again, much quieter, “You got any aspirin, Eds?”

Mike’s holding him so tight he thinks they might meld into one being any second, but he knows it’s ‘cause when the ambulance pulls up, he’s going to try to follow Richie, and he wants to, he really, _ really _ fucking does, and he maybe even puts up a little bit of a fight as he’s watching him being lifted onto a gurney and watching a paramedic shine a light in his eyes. He wants to climb right up into the ambulance with him and drill everything he knows about Richie that will keep him safe into their heads, like that he’s got a mild peanut allergy, and some of his family medical history, and that he smokes cigarettes sometimes, and maybe even his eyeglass prescription, if that’s going to matter. Just in case it matters. Just in case it helps.

But he isn’t family, and he _ can’t _ go in the ambulance, and Stan’s already relayed Richie’s house phone number to the paramedic so they can call his parents when they get to the emergency room, and, really, what the fuck is Derry Home Hospital going to do for him?

A new explosion of anxiety rocks through him as he imagines _ helicopters _ and a flight to a hospital in Portland, where he’ll be far, he’ll be _ so far away, _ and there’s nothing Eddie can do to help him there, and he’s fucking _ dreaming _ if he thinks his mom is going to let him go all the way to fucking _ Portland _ to visit Richie in the hospital. 

Mike’s hand wraps around his arm in Stan’s absence, squeezing so tight it aches, and he looks down to find some kind of fabric bunched up against a wound there, soaked through completely with dark blood. It pools on the pavement around them despite the pressure Mike’s applying. _ Huh, _ is all he can think in the moment. 

That’s a lot more blood than he anticipated. He’s having trouble remembering what to do about an injury like this.

Eddie’s surprised to end up in an ambulance _ anyway. _ Not the same one as Richie, of course, which went tearing down the street already, but a second one rolls up to the curb and a woman with sharp features and white-blonde hair kneels in front of him to look at his arm, and then he’s on his feet and stumbling along, supported by her on one side and Mike on the other, and he’s _ shaking. _ Mike presses a kiss to his temple, still showering him in _ reassurance, _ and squeezes once around his shoulders before letting go so he can be helped inside to lie down on a gurney, too. 

“We’ll meet you there,” Mike calls after him.

He risks a glance through the window separating them from the driver, not sure what he’s expecting to find. Or, maybe _ certain _ about what he’s expecting to find, and relieved to see there’s no clown, or any other iteration of It, sitting in the driver’s seat. He’s maybe a little too dizzy and maybe a little too scared, if _ that’s _ what he’s thinking of in this moment, all alone in the back of the ambulance like this.

Not _ alone _ alone; but without any of the Losers, he’s as good as being stranded on an island. 

Hot blood is soaking rapidly through the front of his shirt even though this paramedic is obviously trying to staunch the flow with pressure and bandages, and all at once everything sharpens to a point. The lights get brighter, his ears ring, higher and louder and _ higher _ and _ louder, _ before there’s a pop like a singular balloon exploding close by his head and it goes all black and quiet at once.

  
  
  


“--those horrid little shits he calls friends, so I turned them away. I just _ know _ this is their fault. I just _ know _ it.” There’s a dull pain in his arm, a pressure muted by layers of bandages and what he has to assume are some pretty strong drugs. “I’ve warned him, time and time again, to keep away from them, and now look! Two of them hospitalized, and it wouldn’t have been my poor baby if he’d ever just _ listen _ to me when I--”

His ears are still ringing. There’s light somewhere. It fades into focus, and then goes away again, like he’s sinking in deep water.

Eddie wakes abruptly, but this time the room is dark and empty, and there isn’t a pudgy hand clamped around his injured arm, squeezing too tight around his stitches. He’s more aware, too, of himself and his surroundings -- the needle lodged in his arm, the frigidness of the room, the dim glow of the lights by the door highlighting an exit, in case anything were to go wrong. As if things haven’t gone wrong enough already.

There’s a glass of water on the bedside table that he downs in one go, stumbling to his feet and grabbing the wheeled IV pole to rush out into the corridor. As much as he _ can _ rush right now, disoriented and weak as he’s feeling. He’s too focused on finding a phone so he can call someone, _ anyone, _ and get the update he needs, to pay much mind to the bag of blood hanging on the pole, or to allow himself even a shudder at the idea of some stranger’s blood being pumped into his body.

A young woman in floral scrubs looks up as he approaches the nurse’s station, quirking an eyebrow at him. “Can I use the phone, please?” he croaks, leaning heavily against the desk. 

She stares him down for a few long moments. “Edward Kaspbrak?”

“Yes?”

“You’re not supposed to be up, you know. You lost a lot of blood, kid.” Regardless, she passes the handset to him and sets the base closer so he can dial Bill’s number. “I’ll get you some orange juice, how’s that sound?”

Eddie nods as he listens to the dial tone. “Thanks,” he calls after her. He realizes, in those quiet moments, that he has no clue what time it is except that it’s _ late, _ and the likelihood of anyone answering their phones right now is slim to none. But if he doesn’t _ try, _ he isn’t going to be able to sleep tonight. Even if that means looking up every hospital in Maine in a phone directory and asking after Richie until he knows where he is and how he’s doing. 

“Heh-heh-hello?” says Bill’s voice, mildly anxious, and Eddie feels relief flood through him just at the sound. 

“Bill!” he cries around the dryness in his throat. “Where’s Richie? What happened?” 

He _ swears _ that Bill laughs, a short and quiet thing, as his voice drifts away from the phone for a second and he addresses someone who must be in the room with him. “Richie’s okay. I-it’s not so bad. They took him up to Portland to do some scans, but it looks like he’s just got a nasty concussion. At least, that’s what Mr. Tozier told us when we went over there.”

“Is he bleeding in his brain? Is there permanent damage? Is he awake?” A plastic cup full of orange juice is set down in front of him but he ignores it, preoccupied with gnawing on his damn knuckles as every worst-case scenario dances through his head, and only then does it occur to him that he had to use a _ phone _ to get ahold of Bill, and there’s an eerie, dull quiet in his head. “Bill… why can’t I--?” he cuts himself off and eyes the nurse in front of him, who is, herself, now sipping at a fresh cup of coffee as she sorts paperwork. 

“Calm down, Doctor K. Everything’s gonna be fine. It’s a good thing you got in there and kicked Belch’s ass when you did. Shouldn’t you be sleeping, or something?”

_ “Bill...” _

_ “Eddie. _ You’re on some pretty strong shit, right now. Probably thanks to your mom. We can’t hear you either -- not that that’s anything new -- but you’re alright. You’re still _ there, _ and so is Richie. You’re both fine.”

Eddie’s knees go weak with relief and he has to grip the edge of the desk to support himself. “I wanna talk to him,” he says, almost wheezing, and this time he can distinctly hear Stan’s voice in the background, though the words themselves are indistinguishable.

“--how they are, Stan,” Bill is saying fondly, then: “He’s _ asleep, _ Eddie. Like you should be. I think ninety percent of your blood ended up on the sidewalk, dude. Criss got you good.”

Stan says something else, sounding almost indignant, then Bill really _ does _ laugh, loud and boisterous, and Eddie feels like he can breathe properly again.

“Did you know that when Richie gets pumped full of hospital-grade drugs, he has the same kind of weird fucking dreams as he does when he smokes that crap weed Jonesy sells him?”

_ No, _ Eddie would not know, because he’s _ also _ been pumped full of hospital-grade drugs, likely per his mother’s request, as Bill suggested, and all it’s done is cut him off from the rest of them. He takes a shaky sip of his orange juice. “When are they bringing him back?”

“A couple of days, Eddie. He’ll be _ fine. _ I promise. Can you sleep, now, please? I’m no doctor, but I’m pretty sure you almost fucking _ died _ today, so it would make us all feel a little better if you were looking out for your health and well-being for the next few days.”

“I’m drinking juice,” Eddie says numbly.

“I appreciate that,” says Bill. “But it’s two in the morning. Go sleep off your buh-blood transfusions or whatever. We’ll still be around when you wake up.”

Eddie _ does, _ but only after he finishes his juice, and after the nurse who almost reminds him of Richie’s sister (her name is Tiffany, and she’s definitely still got the kind of _ attitude _ Hannah operates on, even this far into her twenties) _ also _ insists he get some more sleep, in that kind of pushy, older-sister way he’s used to dealing with at the Toziers’. Still, she gives him a smile and a “No problem,” when he thanks her for letting him use the phone.

And now that he thinks about it, maybe the wooziness and the full-body numbness isn’t a result of blood loss so much as it is from whatever medication his mom pushed the doctors to prescribe him, and fuck if it isn’t making him want to sleep on the _ spot, _ now that he’s not working himself into a panic over Richie’s well-being. Still, even after his head hits the shitty hospital pillow, he keeps himself awake a while longer trying to branch out and feel for the presence of his friends, because there’s something unsettling about not being able to sense them. It’s awfully lonely in here when he doesn’t have six other voices taking up space in his head. It doesn’t help to take his mind off of how desperately he doesn’t want to be here.

One voice, in particular, has left a void behind, and he can only hope that maybe, if he sleeps, this will wear off faster. He _ hopes. _

  
  
  


“I’m not allowed to play video games, Eds,” Richie bitches, flopped dramatically over the edge of his bed with an arm over his face. “I can’t even watch _ TV.” _

“Yeah, so your brain heals properly, dipshit,” Eddie says, quietly -- he’s practically under oath not to be too loud, or too active, or do anything that’s considered “too stimulating” in Richie’s presence right now. He’s barely been out of the hospital a week and his parents are determined to get him as healthy as possible before school starts back up in September, which means _ strict _ adherence to doctor’s orders.

“This is torture.”

“This is concussion recovery. You’re lucky it wasn’t worse.”

“My face would like to make an argument to the contrary,” Richie says, removing his arm from his face only to point out the bandage on his forehead and the scabbed-over wounds on his cheek. 

“I guess Belch is batting a thousand for breaking your glasses,” Eddie says around an attempt at a smile.

Richie sticks his tongue out at him. “You are a terrible friend. Literally _ terrible. _ Can I get a refund?”

“Only if you kept the gift receipt.”

_ “Gift _ receipt? That’s presumptuous of you, Edward. If anyone is the gift, here, it’s--” 

“Richie, are you going to quiet down, or are we going to have to send Eddie home?” Maggie appears in the doorway to his room, arms crossed; Richie’s unofficial jail warden for the rest of the month, it would seem.

Despite orders to rest and relax and whatever the hell else the bigtime doctors up in Portland had to say, Richie can’t sit still, or stay quiet, or reel in the dramatics, not for the fucking life of him, so he _ throws _ himself to the ground at her feet to prostrate himself. “Please, no, ma, I just got him back!”

She laughs -- she tries not to, but the little huff comes out anyway, and the smile she’s fighting is unmistakable. “This is your first warning. And if I see that TV on again, it’s going in the garbage.”

Richie stands abruptly, wobbles a little, and rights himself before either of them can help him with it. “Yes, sir,” he says sternly, saluting.

“Thanks for putting up with him,” Maggie says to Eddie, through more muffled laughter, as she tries to shove Richie back onto the bed. 

“Okay, you can go, I’m behaving,” Richie grumbles, reluctantly allowing himself to be corralled. 

“You keep it down.”

“Why are you telling _ me? _ Eddie’s right here, too! He’s the only person on this planet who can out-talk me.”

The _ look _ Maggie gives him says it all, and Eddie’s stuck muffling laughter behind his hand as she leaves the two of them alone, finally. Richie rounds on him the moment she’s gone, jabbing his raised finger in Eddie’s direction. “You’re an accomplice to my torture,” he hisses, and Eddie _ really _ can’t help the volume of his own laughter, no matter how hard he tries, and he’s stuck glancing at the door, fully expecting Mrs. Tozier to come barging back in to give them their second warning.

“I’m only trying to make sure you get better,” he insists, as quietly as he can. “The sooner you let yourself heal, the sooner you can play video games.”

“I cannot even begin to express to you how fucking bored I am, Eddie,” Richie says, but he doesn’t _ need _ to express it, because Eddie can _ feel _ it. They all can. He’s been a mess of restless energy for _ days. _ It’s keeping them all awake at night no matter how hard they try to tune it out. 

“I know,” Eddie says. “Believe me, I know. Why do you think I’m here?”

“I can’t think, Eds. I’m concussed.”

And despite those strict orders to keep everything calm and sane during his visit, Eddie reaches out to shove hard at Richie’s shoulder. “I was gonna offer to, like, read to you or something, but I think I’m just gonna let you sit here and wallow some more if you keep being a dumbass on purpose.”

“It’s not on purpose, Spaghetti Head. I’m truly just a dumbass.” Richie shoves back and nearly knocks him off the bed. _ ‘Can you, though?’ _ he adds, and it’s not nearly as fuzzy around the edges as his thoughts were a week ago. It’s been giving him headaches, though, to talk to them like that, so they’ve been taking it slow, only communicating in their heads when it’s necessary.

“Read to you? Yeah, of course. What’ve you got, though?”

There are only a few books that aren’t comics stacked haphazardly on the shelf above Richie’s desk. Eddie hops off the bed to go examine them. 

“Uh, Mike gave me a copy of _ Huckleberry Finn _ for my birthday. I haven’t read that yet.”

Eddie prises the novel out from under a battered copy of _ The Great Gatsby. _ “I haven’t read this, either,” he tells Richie, being that they’re both in for some kind of new adventure with this one. He gives the back cover a judicious once-over and nods. “I remember Miss Littlefield made us read _ Tom Sawyer _ in grade ten English, though.”

“That’s probably why he got this for me. I actually liked that book.” Richie props his pillow against his headboard and leans into it, folding his arms and looking to Eddie expectantly.

“‘Course you did,” Eddie says fondly, flipping it open to the first page. He catches Richie staring at the bandages wrapped around his forearm, and the guilt is equally tangible in the air around him and visible on his features, but Eddie only sticks his tongue out at him as soon as he senses it. “This isn’t a pity party, Rich. I’m fine. Stop looking like a kicked puppy.”

Richie scoffs. There isn’t much heat behind it. “You didn’t need to risk your neck for me, is all,” he says, and then it isn’t guilt, but _ fear, _ that Eddie is sensing on him. “Anyway, I’m bored.” he waves a hand towards the book. “Read to me, Jeeves. Chop-chop.”

By the time he’s one chapter in, Richie’s sitting up again, pressed closed behind him, chin resting on his shoulder as he follows Eddie’s progress across the page, and none of Eddie’s reprimands about not being allowed to read for himself will deter him, which is how they end up getting caught, and how Eddie gets himself kicked out of Richie’s room for the rest of the day.

He thinks, as he walks himself home and formulates excuses for his absence to present his mother with, that it was worth it, somehow.

Even when his mother is looming over him as he walks through the front door, arms crossed, demanding to know just where the hell he decided to disappear to for two hours, it was worth it.

Even when he ends up locked in his room for refusing to answer her, it was worth it.

There’s been this ache, heavy in his belly, the whole time he’s been apart from Richie -- a worry that wouldn’t subside despite knowing, logically, that he was just fine. It feels lighter now. Not altogether gone, but not as cumbersome.

Richie must think it’s worth it, too, somehow, when a few days later he’s showing up unannounced at Eddie’s house. He scrapes his nails over the window screen Eddie’s mom recently had installed, after he woke up with bug bites after leaving the window open overnight one too many times. It makes an awful sound, awful and loud enough to make Eddie worry she might hear, so he’s already shushing Richie as he scampers across the room to tell him off.

“Richie, what the hell?” he hisses, glancing over his shoulder and wishing, for the millionth time, that the lock on his bedroom door was on the _ inside. _ “Remember what happened last time you got caught here? Are you _ trying _to get me grounded for life?”

“I haven’t seen you in three days, Eds. It’s killing me,” Richie says from where he’s kneeling on the low roof overlooking the backyard.

“You’ve survived worse, and besides, you’re supposed to be _ resting. _ Forget my mom. _ Yours _ is gonna kill us if she catches you here.”

“She’s at work. I’ve got at least five hours before I need to worry about that.”

“Well mine is downstairs watching TV. Do _ not--” _ There’s a warm flash of nausea through Eddie’s gut. “Do not fucking get me in trouble again, _ please.” _

“I’m not gonna come inside, dude. Don’t worry. I can hide out right here. If I lay down she won’t see me if she opens the door.”

And Eddie… Eddie doesn’t _ want _ Richie to leave. He knows he _ should. _ He’s got this hot fear twisting around inside him that makes him think he should demand Richie go _ now, _ go before he gets him in trouble again. Go before Eddie has to make himself unlearn that _ sick _ response to seeing his friends all over again, and before he can place the blame for it on Richie _ again, _ and before he makes himself fucking miserable trying to keep them tuned out. _ Again. _

He _ should. _ Any minute his mom could unlock the door and let herself in and _ see them, _ and she could force whatever medicine she wants down his throat to teach him a lesson, or go out to buy bags of ice or, worst of all, make good on that promise to call the cops on Richie (he wants to believe they won’t do anything, because cops in Derry have never been very good at their jobs, but the idea that he could be wrong about that only makes the fear grow stronger). 

“We didn’t get to finish our book. I’m the one who’s gonna get grounded for life if I get caught trying to entertain myself, and I’m so fucking bored. I’m so sick of sleeping all day. I’m not even tired. Can you read to me again?”

Eddie looks over his shoulder again. “Can’t one of our friends read to you?” he asks, without _ wanting _ to. 

“I guess, but I wanted you to do it.” He produces _ Huckleberry Finn _ from his back pocket. “Is that okay, Eds? If you really don’t want me here, I can go, I just…” 

“No, no, I _ do. _ Of course I want you here, Rich. But you know my mom really doesn’t like you.”

“She doesn’t like _ any _ of us, Eddie, let’s be realistic.”

“Just… don’t let her catch you,” he says, too boldly for someone who might puke just from the _ anxiety _ of wondering if he might get caught. 

But he doesn’t want to worry about that. He doesn’t want to _ care. _

He wants to be able to just let Richie in through the front door. Bring him up to his room with no fuss. Hang out without glancing over his shoulder every second. 

He just wants to be _ happy. _

He’s appalled by the bitter feeling that settles in his chest then. He recognizes it for what it is, of course, but he knows better than to acknowledge it. It will go away, he tells himself as he pops the screen out of place long enough for Richie to pass the book to him. It always goes away, after a while.

He could never truly hate his mother, after all. No good son could.

* * *


	34. The prophetic fugue state

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a good fucking reason Richie doesn’t want the traditional life Derry offers; the kind that’s somehow expected of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently this chapter has been finished for a while and I just... forgot I wrote the end. Oops.
> 
> Warnings for:  
-guns (no violence)  
-vomiting

* * *

November 1993

* * *

It’s a rare occasion that any of the Losers find a moment of solitude in their clubhouse, owing to the fact that they’re risking Vic Criss’ wrath if they go anywhere on their own (no more so than if they travel in pairs, they’ve come to realize, after a few unavoidable pummeling, but at least this way one on of them has a chance to run for help). Yet here he is, kicked back in a worn hammock in a little kiddie-fort under the earth, during which time Richie finds himself wondering about all the existentialist things he’s sure should be left alone. It’s the “under the earth” part that gets him really thinking about things like that. Like death, and her ways, and crazy sewer clowns that aren’t really clowns after all, and little Georgie Denbrough and incomparable misfortune, and the kind of curse a town like Derry must be trapped under.

It isn’t ideal to sit alone in an underground clubhouse on a cold November evening and reminisce about close brushes with death, because thinking about death means thinking about the life that needs to come before it, and that’s worse, somehow. Richie’s got a pretty good idea of the kind of life he should have -- the kind of life every person has. The kind his parents expect him to have, where he gets an office job (or worse, studies something stupid like _ dentistry) _ and a wife and a squat house in the Derry suburbs with a manicured lawn and white picket fence, and maybe has kids (who the fuck, in their right mind, would want to have kids in this fucking place?). The kind of life that’s just like an unspoken decree on the _ right ways to do things; _ the right ways to grow up and live life to the fullest and not leave room for uncertainties or unforeseens. 

Sometimes Richie sits up in his room listening to radio personalities chatter away from the banged-up box on his dresser; listens to their wise-cracking and clever little segues into new topics and all the verve and vivaciousness of keeping an audience captivated with just their _ voice, _ and he thinks, _ I could do that, too. _

_ I could do that _ ** _better._ **

He has, after all, not one Voice in his arsenal, but many, and varied, and some near-perfected even at the tender age of seventeen when his normal voice is still trying to change it up on the daily -- cracking and lilting unexpectedly, dropping low enough to trick him into thinking, _ ‘This is finally it!’ _ before curling back up into a pre-adolescent squeak that leaves his cheeks flushed. It provides an additional challenge to the stimulating art of living behind a rotating cast of Voices, each evolving beyond the flat characters he had created in his childhood, into something dynamic. Some _ one _ dynamic. Like Colonel Buford Kissdrivel. Like Kinky Briefcase, Sexual Accountant. Like his apparently “tasteless” impression of John F. Kennedy, which in his professional opinion is spot-fucking-on, thank you very much.

He could be something _ better. _ Be a ventriloquist (he’s been practicing throwing his voice since he can remember, and he’s often got the Professor Maturin puppet in his pocket, fraying at the seams from overuse, just as a reminder of his childhood aspirations -- a reminder to keep working towards fulfilling them some way, somehow, and surely nothing more than that). He could be a radio host. He could be _ famous. _ He could be one of the T.V. funnymen, the kind who makes people laugh on Saturday Night Live, could be a _ real _ actor, like Bill Murray or Rob Schneider.

There’s a lot he could do, but none of it quite aligns with the world’s vision of what life for a red-blooded American male should be, or whatever the hell it is that people always say. He’s pretty sure the world would chew him up and spit him out for what he _ wants _ out of life.

Which brings him to the issue at hand -- the issue presently lounging in the hammock _ with _ him, using Richie’s Game Boy and zoned out from the rest of the world. Because he _ had _ been alone, and he had been thinking all those dark and existentialist things, about dying alone, about choosing to remain unfulfilled until eternity, and about life not going his way, and then he’d been rudely (or perhaps mercifully) interrupted. Eddie’s tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth as he squints at the screen of the device and honestly, Richie’s been more productive with his hand down his goddamn pants. He’s got required reading for his dumb English class and typically he’d be done with it already, having skimmed the novella, parsed the necessary information, then taken pen to paper and gone on a two-and-a-half page tangent that could probably count as the literary analysis he’s expected to hand in Monday morning. All in the secluded quiet of an empty clubhouse, enjoying the last few weeks before it becomes too fucking cold to do homework down here for several long months. 

Except it’s _ not _ an empty clubhouse, not anymore, because within about ten minutes of him closing the door and dropping into the hammock with a world-weary sigh that’s frankly concerning coming from someone his age, Eddie had appeared in a halo of light at the top of the ladder, backlit by the sun through the trees. He hadn’t said anything at first, and neither had Richie, wondering if Eddie even knew he was there. He’d looked a little blank -- a little out of his body, if Richie had to try to find a way to make sense of it. He’d hit the floor of the clubhouse, dusted off his jeans, and blinked a few times before looking around and going, “...Huh.”

And then, “Hi, Richie,” with a little rosy-cheeked smile and, well, there’s a good fucking reason Richie doesn’t want the traditional life Derry offers; the kind that’s somehow expected of him. 

_ ‘...Hey, Eds,’ _ Richie had replied after some time, still holding his book open part-way through the first chapter, notebook balanced on his knee, staring dumbly as Eddie approached the hammock and nudged his legs out of the way. 

And now he’s gotten precisely _ nothing _ accomplished and Eddie’s fished the Game Boy out of Richie’s backpack with zero explanation for his presence, and they’re just kind of caught in this heavy quiet wherein Richie is clamping down _ hard _ on all his thoughts. _ Let nothing escape. _ Eddie’s all but mastered that skill: infuriatingly often he’ll disappear from their reach altogether, and for infuriating lengths of time, usually. Because he likes his privacy, he assures them, and besides, they’ve all had enough glimpses of embarrassing shit inside each other’s heads that it’s probably for the best some of them shut the fuck up once in a while.

Richie, of course, teases him about his _ dirty thoughts _ and how he can’t hide them from the Losers forever, and tells him, in that semi-joking, dickish manner they all hate so much, that it’s okay that he’s kind of a freak in bed, if that’s the problem. This has become recurring banter, but Eddie is no less like a pissed-off feral cat each time, and once, while he’d slung an arm around Eddie’s shoulders and pinched his cheek and said, “Wow, Eds, workin’ real hard to hide them filthy, filthy thoughts o’ yers from little ol’ me, aren’tcha?” something dark had flashed across Bev’s face and she’d snapped at him to stop, no trace of humour left in its wake, and Richie had practically stumbled back from the force of it.

He tries to go easy on him about it now, but it’s still so _ frustrating. _ The first few years, it was like living in Eddie’s heart beside him. Every emotion had spilled clear and comprehensible across the pages and Richie had gobbled it up, revelling the intimacy of the ordeal without understanding the _ what _ or the _ why. _

Those are easy to understand, now, as he ignores the homework he’s been putting off all week in favour of watching Eddie play _ Super Mario Land _ in a way that is totally not creepy. He’s a little entranced. But, no, he doesn’t know why.

(Except he_ does.) _

He knows he doesn’t want an office job and a white picket fence and a faceless, nameless woman to come home to every night.

It’s terrifying in ways that even the damn clown couldn’t hold a candle to, because while It definitely knew what was wrong with him, he hadn’t quite been old enough to grasp the_ severity _ of his situation. The real-life consequences of who he is as a person. 

Now he’s a learned man. Real _ edu-mucated. _ Straight A’s and all, not that that’s anything new. 

He’s got that little extra bit of life experience that forewarns him of how hard the _ rest _ of his life is going to be. He watches the news. He ignores the news as hard as he can. He sneaks peeks at newspapers to verify the information he’s been presented with and always regrets it.

The world is a bad, bad place. It isn’t just Derry that’s bad, though Derry certainly may be some of the worst of it. The world is chock-full of cruelty and greed and senseless violence. Overflowing with disease and poverty and ignorance.

Bursting at the seams with evil, and he can’t just attribute that to a sewer clown and its toxic fumes anymore. 

Richie’s got a vice-grip on the thoughts trying to run away from him, and Eddie, unaware, just makes a tiny, irritated noise in the back of his throat and sits up a little, drawing the Game Boy up closer to his face as if that will help anything, and the movement tips him closer against Richie, who’s already in the process of losing a battle of wills with himself. His heel digs into the sensitive skin of Richie’s inner thigh, pant leg riding up to expose his ankle where his sock has slipped down, and _ fuck, _ what is he, some starved Victorian-era bachelor who swoons at the sight of bare skin? It’s his goddamn _ ankle. _ Richie sees way more than that on a daily basis during the summertime, and even in the winter when Eddie runs laps around the school gym to practice for track. 

But he’s a teenager, and he’s a horny teenager, and he’s a horny teenager who’s got the _ fattest _ \-- just the absolute most _ obese _ \-- crush on one of his best friends and he can’t handle it right now. The _ touching. _ He loves it, of course, because it’s natural for them at this point and because for a couple years now his heart’s been doing backflips every time he’s given Eddie a piggy back ride or wrestled him for a can of pop on the floor of his basement (Bev likes to be the ref because she always tips things in Eddie’s favour, and Richie always lets her) or laid statue-still in this very same hammock until his muscles started cramping because Eddie fell asleep on him and he wouldn’t dare wake him.

But right now it’s hard to love it because his hormones are running away from him and with them, his thoughts. His mom’s gonna flip if she finds another crusty-ass sock or, God forbid, hand towel hidden under his desk but a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, or something, and _ here and now _is not the place so he abruptly moves to hop out of the hammock, upsetting his notebook and pen in the process, and croaks, “Yeah, so, done my essay. Gotta head home. See ya tomorrow, Spaghetti Head.”

“Wait!” Eddie cries just as his socked feet hit the bitter-cold floor. Richie half-turns, expecting Eddie to be handing back the Game Boy or maybe even preparing to leave with him, which is just as well ‘cause it’ll be dark soon and he’s not sure he feels comfortable leaving Eddie here to walk home alone in the cold night. 

Instead, Eddie’s fingers curl into the sleeve of his well-worn leather jacket that never does much against the chill of autumn but looks cool anyways, and there’s a hefty silence that sends something unnameable hurtling through Richie’s abdomen. 

Something changes in Eddie, in that split-second as he reaches out to grab him. The same “not-quite-in-his-body” sense that Richie got when Eddie first appeared in the clubhouse, nearly an hour ago now. Richie thinks that feeling must be concern, for whatever the hell is going on with Eds, because clearly it’s _ something. _ His eyes, too, get darker (if possible), like all the light has turned inward, and it’s through a frown that he whispers, “We have to stay here.”

His voice goes _ off, _ too, the same way his eyes are, not-quite-there, not _ -quite- _Eddie. Like he’s talking through a tin-can phone and like he doesn’t quite understand the words coming out of his mouth, either.

“Say what?” And Richie recognizes that feeling for what it _ truly _ is, now that Eddie’s fixed that dark, contemplative, _ unsettling _ look on him. Now that he’s stuck staring back, heart hammering, unable to move as the frown lining Eddie’s face deepens. It’s icy, viscous dread, pooling in his gut.

What is there to be afraid of?

“We have to stay here where it’s safe, Richie,” he says, as if that explains _ anything, _ and the way he says it is not at all like Eddie’s voice and is starting to sound more like wind in leaves or maybe like the vacuum of fucking space, and for the first time in his life Richie kind of _ genuinely _ wishes Eddie would stop talking, but in the same heartbeat he also knows that he _ trusts _ him to make this call (whatever “this call” _ is). _

“Okay.” He sits back in the hammock beside Eddie, careful not to overbalance the whole thing. His feet still rest flat on the floor and he can’t quite break eye contact with Eddie. There’s still light there if he looks hard enough. Not the way light _ should _ be reflected in his eyes -- not the orange glow of sunlight creeping through cracks in their fortress -- but rather tiny pinpricks set further back in his gaze than light should reach. He’s seen eyes like that before, somewhere, and the thought of them (the sight of them) makes his chest tight with a kind of wonder, overwhelmed and disbelieving, even though he can’t quite place it in this moment. “Are you okay?”

One of Eddie’s thick eyebrows quirks up minutely. His lip sticks out less. “I’m fine,” he says. It sounds like a question. Galaxies swirl in the depths of his eyes. Literally.

Richie can’t look away. 

An echoing _ bang _ nearby is what finally jerks him out of his reverie; first instinct being to look at the clubhouse door, which remains firmly shut _ (thank god) _ and then to press a hand over his pounding heart to demand it _ settle the fuck down. _ “The fuck’s that?” he hisses, chancing a sideways glance at Eddie, who is clearly still staring at him, seemingly unaffected by the sudden sound. 

There’s a second noise, then a third. All from somewhere up above them in the Barrens, somewhere close by, and as they ring out a set of accompanying jeers rises up and filters into the quaint safety of their little clubhouse. 

_ “Fuck, _ dude, is that--?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says, still distant and airy and not-at-all like himself. Richie doesn’t have a single goddamn clue as to what the fuck is happening and it makes his limbs quake, and Eddie’s hands wrap around his forearm and hold him like he’s trying to help, even from whatever zonked-out space in his brain he’s currently occupying. And it’s not bad, because Richie is decidedly _ not _ horny anymore, not even remotely. A healthy dose of fear does that to a person. The contact is welcome, as several more consecutive gunshots sound outside and it clicks into place a little bit at a time.

Because for as much as he’s scaring Richie, Eddie is right to keep them sequestered down here until the danger has passed. Someone who’s gone off the rails the way Vic Criss has isn’t going to be judicious with his use of firearms. He’d shoot any one of the Losers in a heartbeat, given the opportunity (and Richie sure as fuck isn’t going to give it to him). “Did you-- how did you know?”

“Know what?”

“That they’d be here. How’d you know it wasn’t safe?”

Eddie doesn’t say anything for quite some time, but when Richie tries to dig into his head while he has the chance, he’s met not with the usual opaque blockade Eddie keeps up, but rather with something more akin to a wall of static, grating and insurmountable, and in his peripheral vision he sees Eddie shrug. “There’s only so much it can do for us, Richie. We need to help each other if we’re going to make it.”

And Richie-- well, he doesn’t know what the fuck to say to _ that, _ or what it’s even supposed to _ mean, _ so he gapes at Eddie for a couple seconds before giving up.

There’s silence between them after that, not a single thought passing through the shine to break the tension, and Richie thinks it’s for the best since that awful static-feeling gave him a headache. They sit, Eddie holding onto Richie’s shaking arm, hammock swaying gently under their combined weight, as the gunshots taper out into quiet and the voices all grow louder, rustling footsteps through the thick cover of dead leaves, _ approaching the clubhouse. _

Richie’s going to piss his pants, he’s pretty sure. Vic’s there, of course, newly christened ringleader of the Bowers-gang-turned-Criss-gang, and Belch for sure because they’re practically a package deal. He can almost guarantee that third voice is Moose but he isn’t hoping to find out, and there’s this godawful creak when one of them steps on the fucking clubhouse door that in actuality isn’t so loud, but sounds like another fucking gunshot through the roaring in Richie’s ears, and _ holy fucking shit, _ his heart is going to give out.

The footsteps, however, continue on their way overtop of the clubhouse until the sound of the gang disappears altogether, and even then Richie can’t quite calm down.

“Richie?” Eddie’s voice says -- _ Eddie’s _ voice, not the hollow, choked version of it that’s been giving Richie goosebumps this whole time. He whips around to stare at him, and the way the light of the dying sun reflects back from his eyes and makes them burn orange, and the sickly pallor of his face, and the way his confused expression also seems a little pissed-off, like he’s mad about being confused.

_ “Eds? _ Eddie, dude, how the fuck did you know?”

“Know... what?” Eddie asks, and then he scrambles out of the hammock in time to grab the little plastic trash-bucket out of the corner and vomit violently into it. 

  
  
  


It’s a fumbling, awkward endeavour trying to get Eddie up and out of the clubhouse. He keeps repeating a mantra of, _ “I wasn’t supposed to leave the house.” _

“My mom’s gonna fuckin’ kill me,” he says, and Richie nods and says, “I know. You told me that.”

“I wasn’t supposed to leave. I dunno why I left. I wasn’t supposed to.”

Eddie’s shivering against the cold and Richie doesn’t think twice about stripping off his jacket and wrapping it around him. He’s stumbling like he’s drunk and his skin is _pale;_ Richie’s giving honest consideration to taking him up to the hospital -- hopping in the Vette and speeding all the way there, but how would he explain away _this?_ _“Hi, doctor, my friend here just came out of some kind of prophetic fugue state, likely induced by the Turtle-God that supports the pillars of our universe on its back. The same one who gave my friends and I telepathic powers. I think he needs medical attention now. Can you check his brain for, uh… Turtle-God damage?”_

There’s not much he can do but take Eddie back home and maybe hope his mom doesn’t notice something is wrong with him.

But, _ no, _ that sounds like a _ worse _ idea than a trip to the ER. He’s urging Eddie out of the Barrens, back towards where the overgrown basin slopes up to meet Kansas Street, a frantic rhythm to his heartbeat, and he’s already decided what he’s going to do without bothering to ask.

“I need sugar,” Eddie says suddenly, as the sight of headlights rolling down Kansas (vivid against the fading daylight) comes into view through a break in the trees up ahead. 

It’s such an unusual thing to say, especially for Eddie, who all-too-often lets his mother’s fear of anything even _ potentially _ harmful to his little body take over him so that he’ll act as if he’s got an aversion to sugar even around the rest of the Losers (a rare occurrence, but for him to _ actively _ seek it out, especially while he’s right in the middle of raving about his mother and his own defiance -- and the consequences thereof -- is too unusual for it to be real). See, Eddie doesn’t associate his mom with sweets. He mostly associates her with long days watching the summer sun slide by outside his window; bland, healthy foods, like the kind of cereal Richie’s grandparents eat; and that little bit of residual anger from his initial discovery about the possibility of all his sicknesses being made up (Richie is still _ certain _ that’s true and he wishes Eddie would just stop taking those stupid fake pills altogether and be done with it).

Richie can hardly be blamed for missing a step and wondering out loud, “You what now?”

“I need sugar,” Eddie repeats more firmly. “I don’t feel good. Sugar helped last time.”

_“Last time?”_ _How many times, precisely, have you been possessed by our old Turtle pal?_ he should probably ask, but that sounds looney-tunes even to his own ears.

If he’s being perfectly honest, he’s beginning to wonder if that’s even what happened, or if maybe he’s just _ actually _ gone looney-tunes and he _ imagined _ half the weird shit that just took place.

But weird shit is, literally, run of the mill in good ole Derry, Maine, so he opts to just roll with it. He’s been through _ weirder _ shit than Eddie going into some kind of _ state _ and accidentally -- clearly unknowingly -- saving Richie’s ass from what was sure to be a gory death. A murder that Criss and his cronies would probably never be convicted of, if they did it out in the middle of the woods and hid the evidence well enough. 

“Okay,” he concedes. “Alright. I’ll get you to my place and you can just eat sugar straight out of the bag until my mom catches us. Deal?”

And for a second he thinks Eddie is going to say something else about his mom and being in trouble and not leaving the house, plus probably something to do with a curfew and being grounded, but instead he sags against his side and says, “Okay. Thank you.”

Maggie Tozier is, as always, more than happy to see Eddie, who Richie often suspects she loves more than her own son (and he can hardly blame her). And then, reasonably concerned about the state he’s in. 

“Just tired,” he assures her, while Richie digs a Twinkie out of the box in the pantry, thinks better of it, grabs a second, then a third, and joins him at the island. “Are you sure it’s okay I stay here?” (Richie had just announced that plan as they walked in the front door, and Eddie hadn’t disagreed, as he expected, so he supposes that’s _ the _ plan, now, and thank god -- Maturin -- for that). 

“It’s always okay, Eddie. You’re always welcome here, you know that.” 

And, yeah, Maggie’s got a soft spot for him the size of Texas. It’s probably a genetic thing, Richie has decided. He can _ sense _ the sincerity on her, like overzealously-applied perfume wafting through the room. That Tozier instinct to just do whatever it takes to take care of Eddie. 

On the flipside, Eddie’s radiating the bitter sting of _ fear-uncertainty-discomfort-guilt, _ and Richie can hear the muted mantra in his head still, that his mom’s going to kill him, that she’ll be _ so pissed, _ that he doesn’t have _ permission, _ that she’d fucking lose it if she knew he was at _ Richie’s _ house, of all fucking people.

Richie puts a hand on his shoulder and Eddie turns tear-filled eyes on him, and maybe in better circumstances, his expression would be comical. His cheeks bulge like a hamster’s, the entire Twinkie he crammed in his mouth puffing them out, and his face has gone all red and blotchy with the threat of tears where it isn’t moon-pale, and his eyes have gone _ huge. _

But it’s _ panic _ that he’s looking at Richie with, and instead of laughing, his chest goes heavy as his heart splits right in two with a resounding _ crrrrack! _

_‘I shouldn’t have even left,’_ he says _again._ _‘I wasn’t supposed to _**_leave.’_** It comes across all frantic and jumbled, caught up and tangled in threads of anxiety, and there’s something _more,_ something _deeper,_ that Richie can’t quite grasp, wrapped up in there. It’s viscerally painful, even for someone just listening in, and it’s making his palms sweat, his heart kick into overdrive again, and his breath come shorter.

_ ‘It’s okay, Eds,’ _ he insists. _ ‘It’s really okay. We got you.’ _

Eddie only shakes his head and tears open another Twinkie. Richie doesn’t feel any more calm. In fact, Eddie’s worry is so potent that even _ Bill _ comes snooping around Richie’s head to ask him what the fuck is going on, and Richie doesn’t know where to _ begin _ explaining, except to say that Eddie is upset and he’ll talk to him later.

Neither of them says much else until they’re both wearing pyjamas and Richie is digging through the drawers in the washroom, trying to find that pack of spare toothbrushes they keep on hand. 

Funny enough, Eddie used to be over here often enough he had a toothbrush of his own. Gone are those days, aren’t they?

“You’re going to give yourself an ulcer, dude,” Richie says, and Eddie’s face pinches, the worry becoming somehow _ thicker, _ clouding around him like a deep grey fog. 

“I-- No, I’m not. Fuck you,” Eddie snaps back. There’s little conviction in his tone.

They get ready for bed in tense silence. Eddie’s starting to make him feel outright nauseated, and Richie watches him carefully for a sign that he might puke again. 

“Are you gonna, like, explain any of that?” Richie asks, once they’re lying side-by-side in his bed, the television playing some old show he couldn’t give a fuck about, just for some background noise. Eddie is _ tense _ beside him. Tense enough it’s making him feel physically uncomfortable. 

Eddie doesn’t answer him. Not for a long while, but contrary to popular belief, Richie has plenty of patience. He’s still concerned, though, that Eddie’s just going to up and vomit any second, because it’s practically all he can feel coming off of him. Then, all at once, Eddie goes quiet. He throws up the barrier again, higher than ever, just as he’s opening his mouth to speak. His wrings his hands where they’re folded over his chest. “I don’t want you to get in trouble,” he says, finally, and Richie knows in that moment they’re not even within the realm of being on the same page.

Eddie knows this. Eddie knows this, too. He gives Richie an apologetic smile, a glance out of the corner of his eye, something that tells him, _ I’m sorry, _ and, _ just let me say this, please. _

“I don’t want…” His gaze turns back to the ceiling. “I don’t want _ any _ of you to get in trouble, y’know. And I’m-- _ Shit, _ Richie, I’m so sorry if you do.”

“Why would I get in trouble, Eds?” he asks, as gently as possible, a lump forming in his throat as he watches a tear on Eddie’s cheek reflect the bluish light from the TV.

“My mom… said,” Eddie’s breath comes suddenly in sharp wheezes, and Richie thinks to reach for an inhaler that isn’t there, “she’ll call the cops on you.”

Richie needs a moment with that one. “Call the cops?” he repeats, and Eddie nods, still intently focused on the ceiling. “What for?”

“For spending time with me.”

Richie needs an even longer moment with _ that. _

“She can’t-- she can’t do that, Eds. That’s not...” he pauses and lifts himself on his elbow so he can see Eddie better. “That’s not a good reason to call the police. That kinda thing is more likely to get her thrown in the looney bin than anything. What the fuck does she think is gonna happen? Why would you even _ believe _ her?”

A sob tears up out of Eddie’s throat all at once and Richie’s taken aback. He’s shaking his head, hands coming up to cover his face. “I can’t tell you.”

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?” Richie tries to keep his voice light and playful, but he’s close to crying, himself, just because of how much it hurts to see _ Eddie _ cry. 

“I shouldn’t be here. I don’t want to get in trouble.”

“You keep saying that.” Richie’s heartbeat is raucous in his own ears. Maybe Eddie’s finally, _ finally _ willing to tell him what the fuck has him acting so _ weird _ this year. He dares to hope. “Why would you get in trouble, Eds?”

“I’m not supposed to spend time with you,” he insists, like that explains _ anything, _ and then tacks on a, _ “Any _ of you. I don’t want her to do anything that’s gonna get one of you hurt, y’know? I don’t want… What if she…? What about _ Mike?” _

Richie _ does _ see the point, there. “Jesus,” he says, sitting up properly, slipping an arm under Eddie’s shoulder to encourage him to sit up, too. “You shouldn’t have to worry about that. That’s… that’s _ crazy. _ You know that, right? That’s totally nuts. Even if she _ did _ call the cops on one of us, she needs a good reason. They’re not gonna do anything without a good reason.” He doesn’t mention that everyone in town thinks Sonia Kaspbrak is kind of looneytunes, so the Derry Police Department isn’t likely to buy any bullshit she tries to feed them. Equally wisely, he hides away that nagging thought that some cops in Derry aren’t exactly trustworthy, and the chance to go after one of the only black people in town is probably something they’re dying for. 

It would be a coin toss whether the kind of person who took the case Sonia wanted to open would be a cop like officer Nell, or one like Butch Bowers had been.

Eddie goes along with him easily enough, allowing himself to be lifted upright and pulled into Richie’s arms. He’s not openly crying anymore so much as he’s gone all dull, and the remnants of his tears are cold against Richie’s shoulder when he rests his face there. “I just want to be able to _ do _ stuff, y’know? Without having to worry. I… I don’t like that when I come home from work, she asks me who I’ve been with, like she wants me to rat one of you out, and no matter what I say it’s never gonna be the truth, because if she knew I have a job she’d _ flip.” _ He says it in barely more than a whisper. “I can’t go to track practice without having to make up some kind of lie, or sneak out, because I’m not allowed to run.”

Eddie’s arms snake around his waist and squeeze. Richie, who’s still holding him with an arm over his shoulders, squeezes back, and Eddie continues before he can say anything, “I don’t want to sound ungrateful.”

Richie’s always disliked Sonia. He’s never really done anything to hide it. He’s made fun of her the whole time he’s known her, and never once has he agreed with anything she’s said or done, or agreed with Eddie whenever he chooses to believe she’s _ right _ about things. 

He’s always hated her as much as she hates him, he’s pretty sure. 

And right now, he especially hates her, because she made Eddie _ cry. _ He hates her as much now as he did when Eddie cried outside the roller rink after Richie wasted almost three months missing him terribly, and three before that wishing he’d be around more often. That was her fault. He knows that was her fault. He hates her as much now as he did when Eddie told him the medication she was giving him for almost his whole life was _ fake _ (it _ is _ fake, whether Eddie wants to believe that or not -- whether he wants to believe his own mother or not). 

He hates her as much now as the day she took away Eddie’s skateboard, something he had been so excited about, so proud of, and Richie watched him shrink into this unfamiliar caricature of himself under the weight of her anger. As much as he does every time Eddie cuts one of their joy-rides in the Vette short, because it’s getting late and his mom is going to wonder where he is. 

He can’t love Eddie the way he does without hating the people who aren’t _ good _ for him, and Sonia Kaspbrak is just that. 

She just isn’t good for him. She makes him into something he’s not -- something he doesn’t want to be.

And that isn’t fair of Richie, he knows, because he isn’t _ her, _ and he isn’t a parent, and he especially isn’t a single mother trying to raise her only son in a dangerous world. But she isn’t doing it _ right. _ Richie couldn’t say how, exactly, but he’s positive she isn’t doing it right. The whole parenting thing. 

He doesn’t know how to put that into words, not the way he wants Eddie to understand (Eddie doesn’t take well to outright criticisms of his mother). What he manages is this: “That isn’t ungrateful, Eddie. That’s just how being a teenager is. We want freedom. We _ need _ freedom. If anyone’s ungrateful here, I think it’s her. She just doesn’t see how cool her kid is, and she doesn’t get how to let you be yourself. That’s on her.”

Eddie sniffles quietly. His breath is warm against Richie’s throat. Richie smooths a hand down his back, hoping it’ll help him stay calm now that his breathing has evened out and he’s stopped crying. 

He _ hates _ Sonia for making Eddie cry.

“You should be allowed to have a job,” he says, quietly, trying to keep that anger out of his voice. “You should be allowed to join the track team. You shouldn’t have to worry about that. She’s not a dictator, Eds. She’s your _ mom. _ She’s supposed to _ support _ you when you want to do stuff.”

“Not if it’s bad for me,” Eddie argues back the moment the words are out of Richie’s mouth. 

“Those things aren’t bad for you. You know that. _ She _ knows that.”

Eddie pulls back from the embrace and folds his arms over his chest. He stares down at the rumpled comforter draped over his knees. “I don’t mean _ those,” _ he says, chewing his lip for a few moments before adding, “I’m not _ sick. _ There’s nothing wrong with me.” But he doesn’t elaborate, even when Richie asks him to. He only lies down again, facing the wall, his back to Richie, and pulls the comforter up over his head. The tension and fear radiating from him aches through all of Richie’s body.

Richie’s careful not to let Eddie catch him crying. He lies awake long after he’s sure Eddie’s fallen asleep, and worries he’s going to give _ himself _ an ulcer, wondering if Eddie’s going to disappear on them again. 

If he’s going to stay away for good this time.

* * *


	35. Something appealing about resignation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it's just easier to give in to the inevitable. Fighting back gets so exhausting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for:  
-internalized homophobia  
-abuse/manipulation  
-Sonia being Sonia  
-more ice baths/DIY conversion therapy

* * *

November 1993

* * *

Richie’s reluctant to let him leave in the morning. Not just because it’s early as  _ fuck, _ but because he’s got this pinched, worried feeling in his belly that Eddie can’t ignore no matter how hard he tries to block him out.

Apparently, Richie isn’t the only one. 

“You’re scared,” Richie says to him as Eddie changes back into his dirty clothes from the day before and rejects the hoodie he’s offered. 

“Of course I am,” Eddie grumbles, sitting on the edge of the bed to pull his socks on. “If she finds out I was here, she’s gonna get your ass thrown in jail.”

“For  _ what?” _ Richie demands, but Eddie just shakes his head. He’d probably be disgusted if Eddie were to say it. Not only because Richie would never touch another boy like that, if his tales of his sexual escapades are anything to go by, but because Richie would  _ never, ever _ force himself on someone. Maybe that’s the more disgusting aspect of his mother’s planned lie -- the suggestion that Richie, gross as he is about sexual stuff, would ever hurt someone else like  _ that. _ “C’mon, Eds, I already told you. She literally  _ can’t _ do that. She’s just trying to scare you, because she’s--” he cuts himself off, blinking rapidly, then shakes his head with a growl. Eddie can tell someone else is trying to talk to him, but not  _ who. _ “Why the fuck not?” he mutters under his breath.

Eddie watches the ordeal with some interest. “I just don’t want her to try,” he says feebly, as Richie scowls at nothing, thoughts turned inwards. 

There’s a long silence. Eddie decides he better just  _ go, _ and let Richie go back to sleep. Maybe he can even make it home before his mom wakes up, and just pretend that he was there all night. She won’t believe him, but it’s worth a shot, maybe.

He’s just standing up when Richie grabs his arm. “Eddie,” he says lowly, and Eddie can predict the wretched expression on his face well before he summons the courage to look. “Is she… y’know… is she like Bev’s dad?”

Eddie feels a shudder crawl through him, not because of his own mother, but because they’ve  _ all _ had the unfortunate experience of intruding on Bev’s occasional nightmare, and she’s never even had to say anything out loud for them to just  _ know.  _ They all understand well enough, and unless something changes, it seems she wants to leave it at that. “No,” he says, lip curling. “No, she doesn’t… she wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t  _ hit _ me, Richie. She wouldn’t do those kind of things to me. You should know that.” Richie’s still staring at him like he’s a complicated puzzle and the pieces just aren’t fitting together quite right, so before Richie can start turning those pieces at different angles to find the whole picture, he adds, “She’s just overbearing. You  _ know _ that. She’s just trying to figure out what’s best for me. Maybe she isn’t always right. She’s trying her best, okay? She’s not perfect, but she  _ loves  _ me, and she’s  _ trying.” _

And Richie-- Richie feels almost  _ angry, _ for a second. It races through him like wildfire and Eddie nearly flinches back from it, but then it’s gone. “Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do, here, Eddie?” he demands. “You’re afraid of your mom but you ‘can’t tell me why,’ or whatever the fuck, and she’s trying to call the cops on your friends, for… for what? You can’t  _ tell _ me. What am I supposed to think?”

He tries to keep his voice gentle, he really does, and Eddie can tell how much control it’s taking, but the urgency and frustration still bleed through. 

And it sets Eddie on edge, more than before, because…  _ god, _ he really shouldn’t tell Richie, not right now. Maybe not ever. It’s embarrassing. The whole damn thing is. The fact that Eddie is head over fucking heels for  _ him, _ of all people, is just the icing on the cake. He wants to make Richie laugh for the rest of their lives, and then he wants so much  _ more, _ and it  _ hurts _ sometimes. It hurts worst of all knowing it isn’t an option. It’s not a  _ safe _ option, even if it were a realistic one. 

It would cost, among other things, his mother’s love, and he truly doesn’t know what to do without that.

But it’s made somehow more embarrassing by the fact that he just goes along with her attempts to fix it, knowing full well they don’t work, and being entirely aware of how much they’re going to hurt,  _ every time. _

Eddie opens his mouth to tell Richie he worries too much, or he’s jumping to conclusions, or to not be so fucking nosy, but what he says instead, heart pounding, throat too tight, is as close to a confession as he’s ready to get. “It’s because she thinks you’re gay,” he says, and that’s  _ true, _ but that’s not the whole problem. The  _ real _ problem is that she thinks  _ Eddie’s _ gay, or Richie’s somehow recruited him to the ranks of the homosexual degenerates (which is technically true, but not the way she seems to think it is).

Richie’s eyes go wide. Eddie’s probably go wider. He thinks to apologize -- for his mom’s behaviour, or for ever repeating that, or for sharing the implication that it’s something “bad.”

“I already know she thinks that. Lots of people do, Eds,” Richie says as he composes himself. “That’s not… I mean, it’s fine she thinks that. Whatever. I paint my nails, so I must be a queer, right?”

“She thinks,” Eddie presses on, despite telling himself over and over again  _ not _ to. He has to swallow down a lump in his throat and blink tears out of his eyes as he looks anywhere but at Richie’s face, and the space between them on the mattress suddenly feels like far too little. “She thinks you’re gonna… do something. To me. And that’s why she wants to call the cops on you. That’s why she--”  _ That’s why she freaked so bad when she caught you in my room, _ he barely prevents himself from saying, because then Richie might want the details and Eddie doesn’t want him to ever know how close he came to hating him after that incident, or how resentful he was for those few months it took him to give his damn head a shake. 

He doesn’t want to give her incentive to take it a step further,  _ really _ make him feel hatred towards Richie for putting him in such a painful position. He doesn’t want that ever again, yet here he is, sitting on Richie’s bed after spending the night with him.

She’ll be well within her rights to go the extra mile to make Eddie afraid to spend time with his friends after this.

Richie’s throat works but no sound comes out, and already Eddie can sense the approach of a sick, crawling feeling in Richie’s gut, one that definitely isn’t coming from  _ him _ this time.

That all-too-familiar sensation of tears burning at the back of his throat threatens to choke him, so he stands abruptly and sucks in a slow breath, tipping his face towards the ceiling like that’ll make the desire to cry go away.

“I’m gonna go,” he says, and it comes out raspy and too quiet, but it echoes in his head anyway, so Richie would hear him regardless. He doesn’t wait for an answer, just leaves the room without looking back and closes the door behind him.

The house is quiet. Everyone else must still be sleeping. He unlocks the front door and lets himself out. Richie’s still a staticky quiet space in the back of his head. 

In fact, that silence, buzzing with nervous energy though it is,  _ remains _ as silence the entire time Eddie is walking home. It’s strange, coming from Richie. Even when Eddie was ignoring him because he wanted to blame him for getting in trouble, Richie would still try to talk to him for most of the day, or broadcast his thoughts unnecessarily to all the Losers, or ask incredibly stupid shit every five seconds like, “Do you think it hurts the grass when we walk on it?” or “What do you think the moon tastes like?”

It’s only when Eddie is psyching himself up to ascend the porch steps back at his own house that Richie offers a feeble,  _ ‘I’m sorry,’ _ before going quiet again. 

_ ‘It’s not your fault,’ _ Eddie tells him as he stares down the front door of his house with mounting apprehension. He doesn’t add the “it’s mine” that he  _ knows _ is true -- that will help reassure Richie more than anything else. He doesn’t know what will happen if Richie knows about that. He doesn’t know if he could handle the fallout.

The door opens just as he’s reaching for the handle. He snatches his hand back like he’s been burned, pulling it close to his chest, trying to make himself look appropriately small and pitiful and apologetic.

It opens on a wall of anger and disgust, and that’s somehow worse than anything else. Feeling how  _ she _ feels about him. He just wants her to love him no matter what, and  _ this _ feels like the farthest thing from love.

“I--” he tries to begin, but he’s cut off by her hand snaking around the back of his neck, long nails catching and pinching at his skin. He’s dragged forward into the house. The door slams shut behind him.

She keeps her hand on the back of his neck like that, squeezing to keep him in place.

“Eddie,” she says in a miserable voice that doesn’t match the red-hot anger pulsing around her. He can’t look her in the eye, even though she’s leaning down to try to force eye contact. “Eddie, my baby, I was worried sick about you. I went into your room to check on you last night and you weren’t there. I almost called the police.” A shiver rakes down his spine. “Where did you disappear to?” she asks, innocent in tone but malicious and probing in intent.

“I’m sorry,” he says, like it’ll fix anything. His heart squeezes and shudders in his chest. Nausea bubbles in his gut.  _ God, he’s such an idiot, and he’s gonna get in so much trouble, and it’s all his own stupid fault. _ “I went for a walk to clear my head,” he lies. “I have a lot of big assignments due next week and I just… I got overwhelmed, so I went for a walk, and I lost track of time.”

“Where did you  _ go?” _

Eddie swallows down the urge to vomit. Richie is horribly quiet in his head. He wishes he’d crack a joke or something, to make Eddie stop feeling like he’s fucked  _ everything _ up today. “I went… I just went… I went all over. I was gone for a while.”

“Edward Kaspbrak. Where did you  _ sleep _ last night?”  _ Disgust disgust  _ ** _disgust._ **

“I slept at Bill’s,” he says easily enough, praying the lie doesn’t show on his face. He’s gotten good at lying, he thinks, and that’s such a shameful thing. He shouldn’t lie to his mother. She deserves the truth.

But the truth always seems to have consequences.

“I’m giving you one more chance to be honest, Eddie.”

“I swear, I slept over at Bill’s house! On-- on the couch,” he adds, because he has a feeling that’s probably going to come up at some point, because she’s  _ like that. _ She’s always on him about stuff like that.

He knows he can’t get too close to the other boys. People talk. His mom is gullible. Or maybe she’s just  _ smart, _ and she can see through his lies no matter how good he gets at telling them.

People talk, and his mom listens, and Eddie is losing a battle with a secret that he wonders what the point of keeping anymore is.

“It was just late, and I was nearby, and it was  _ cold, _ so I knocked on the door just so I could go in to warm up, and I fell asleep on the couch. I  _ swear, _ mom.”

She grabs her keys out of the ceramic bowl she keeps them in, and her coat off its hook. “Get in the car,” she tells him, already turning him towards the door.

“What? Why?” Eddie doesn’t stand a chance fighting against her, so he just goes along with it, allowing himself to be ushered out onto the front porch and down the steps.

“Because you’re lying to me, and I’m sick of you lying to me.”

“Where are we going?” he asks as she opens the passenger door and shoves him inside. His heart has dropped down to his toes, he’d swear it. He puts his seat belt on robotically as the door slams shut and his mom stomps around to the other side of the car.

“We,” she huffs as she settles into the driver’s seat and starts the car, “are going to the gas station.”

“What?”

She reverses out of the driveway too fast, tires screeching on the asphalt. “We’re going to the gas station, Eddie,” she says again, sharply, as she tears off down the street.

Eddie can sense it’s best if he doesn’t ask any more questions. 

Richie is quiet.

Eddie’s going to puke. He’s gonna upchuck all over the dashboard. His hands shake where they’re folded carefully in his lap.

He doesn’t even remember why he left his stupid fucking house in the stupid fucking first place last night. This wouldn’t be happening if he didn’t just… _ sleepwalk _ over to the clubhouse and wake up there. Or if he didn’t feel like  _ shit _ afterwards, and need Richie’s help. If he didn’t decide it would be just fine to sleep over. Or, better yet, if he wasn’t so desperate to spend time around Richie despite orders to keep his distance that it made him idiotic and reckless. 

If he was better at listening to his mom in the first place, maybe things like this -- whatever  _ this _ is -- wouldn’t happen. 

He worries one of the other Losers might realize something’s wrong, even though it’s early enough that most of them are still asleep. Richie’s awake, obviously, but he’s closed himself off from the rest of them and is stewing in silence, probably wondering why the fuck Eddie didn’t stand up for him (he did) or thinking that Eddie must hate him now (he doesn’t; he could never, even if he tried). Mike’s up, too, but his head is all foggy with sleep still, so Eddie doubts he’s noticed him worrying himself into knots. 

He forces himself to take a few deep breaths as his mom pulls into the gas station parking lot. His hands instinctively go to the fanny pack around his waist. His inhaler is in it, but only in case his mom decides to check. He hasn’t used it in over a year. He doesn’t  _ want _ to.

He wants to prove he isn’t sick or weak or fragile. 

Going out of his way to defy his mom really isn’t the way to do that, but here he is. It must have just snowballed.

She shoves some cash into his hand. “Go buy ice.”

“Huh?” he says dumbly.

She gestures to the machine hooked up by the front door of the building. “Go buy ice. Four bags should do it.”

He doesn’t even  _ need _ to buy ice, he thinks. His whole body just filled up with it. The nauseated feeling abates, only to be replaced with cold,  _ cold _ fear. “I was at Richie’s,” he tells her quietly, throat suddenly too dry. “I did lie. I was at Richie’s. I didn’t… we didn’t do anything. I just…” He swallows some of that cold sensation down, because it’s threatening to make his throat close up. “I went for a walk and just kind of ended up there. I wasn’t paying attention. Nothing happened. He’s not… he’s not  _ like _ that, mommy, I swear. He likes girls. He doesn’t like  _ me.”  _ (Why does that hurt so much to say, when he’s always known it’s the truth?) “I ended up at Richie’s, and it was late, and-- and Mrs. Tozier asked me to stay the night. I slept on the couch. Nothing happened. I swear. I  _ promise. _ I would never…”  _ God, no, he  _ really _ can’t breathe. _ “I’d never-- I swear--”

“Eddie, this is the last time I’m asking. I don’t want you to make this any worse for yourself. Go get the ice.”

“I’m sorry,” he wheezes, pressing a hand to his chest like it’ll help him. 

“Use your inhaler, sweetie. You’re having an asthma attack.”

He throws himself out of the car and fishes the inhaler out of his fanny pack. He brings it to his lips but doesn’t trigger it, just sucks back a breath of cold morning air and tries to calm himself in his own way as he crosses the parking lot. If he closes his eyes, he can visualize the bonds holding him and his friends together. He can sense the varying degrees of consciousness for such an early hour on a Sunday. He can see through a gauzy veil into Bev’s dream, but he doesn’t linger. He can feel where Richie’s closed and locked a door against all of them  _ (his fault).  _ He gets a vague sense of Mike cooking breakfast, in snippets of visuals. He can taste the sharp bite mint toothpaste from Stan as he gets ready for his day. 

He’s fine. He holds his hand firmly over his chest and breathes deep, trying to count the breaths he’s taking. He’s  _ fine. _ He’s done this before. He can do it again. 

Hell, he’s a pro by now.

He digs out four bags of dry ice from the freezer. They sting and burn his hands, so he holds them tighter. Might as well ease himself into it, if that’s possible. 

This is his own damn fault for lying. He should know better by now. He should stop trying to maintain lies altogether.

He lingers outside for a few moments after he’s paid for it, breathing slowly. The pain from the ice is grounding, even when it isn’t out of its package yet.

Even all the way over here, he can sense his mother’s mounting impatience. 

He gives in, and settles himself silently into the passenger seat with the ice on his lap, burning at his legs now. 

“I’m sure you have some pictures of that boy lying around still,” she says, almost casual, barely a question. An assumption. A fair one. 

“Um.” He stares determinedly,  _ solely _ out the window. “Not anymore, I don’t think.”

“That’s my boy.” Her sharp fingers pinch at his cheek. He doesn’t dare swat her hand away. “You learn fast.”

If he were feeling more resentful, or a little more brave, he’d tell her he didn’t throw them away like she must think he did. He’d tell her he hid them somewhere she’ll never find them. He’d maybe even tell her she’s been right all along, about him. Not necessarily about Richie, who’s just a close friend who  _ happens _ to hit all the checks on her list, despite being nothing like Eddie. He’d tell her he has a job, and he’s on the track team at school, and he’s  _ good _ at it. She’s been wrong about  _ that. _ Eddie can run without hurting himself. He can do the long jump and the hundred-meter dash and  _ survive _ the ordeal. 

He can win medals and trophies, but he has to hide them in the clubhouse along with everything else that matters, so she won’t catch on. 

He doesn’t, though. He just nods and goes back to staring at the passing houses and trees, the elderly residents of Derry out taking early-morning walks, the cars parked on the side of the road. 

“We’ll make do,” she says over his silence, patting the bags on his lap like this is just some fun game they’re going to play. “I’m sure I’ve still got something at home I can use to help.”

Eddie sighs and rests his forehead against the window. His little not-asthma attack drained all the energy out of him, and he can’t even bring himself to get worked up about it again, even as they get closer and closer to their house. 

He’s the one to bring the ice into the house. He’s the one to cut the bags open and empty them into the tub. He’s the one to retrieve the box of salt from the kitchen cabinet. 

She doesn’t tell him to, but she stares at him expectantly, and smiles as he follows all the necessary steps, and that’s telling enough. 

“I’ll go find some magazines, Eddie-bear, okay?” she says sweetly as she brushes his hair off his forehead. “Oh, we’ve got to do something about this mop. I’ll give it a trim later, okay?”

Eddie doesn’t want to cut his hair. He wants to let it get longer, and wild and curly like Richie’s does. He nods anyway. That would be the last thing she wants to hear.

“That’s a good boy.” His mother kisses his cheek with far too much enthusiasm. It’s suffocating. “I love you, Eddie. You’re growing into such a sweet young man. Now, you get in there. I’ll be right back.”

“Okay, mommy.” He nods slowly, a little thrown by the genuine praise, as she disappears down the hall and into her room.

He strips down and steps into the tub.

* * *


	36. What the "knowing" is for

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He’s safe here. The Hanlon’s don’t have much, but that makes them all the more willing to offer what’s theirs. Nothing will hurt him here, not if this man has anything to say about it. No matter what, he can come to this place and he’ll be welcomed and accommodated and, perhaps most importantly, taken care of."
> 
> Suddenly that's relevant again. Suddenly he understand why it was important for him to know that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's that? 2 updates in one week? During exam week??? Unbelievable.  
I appreciate you all a lot so you can have this chapter early. As a treat.
> 
> Warnings for:  
-Sonia  
-physical abuse  
-manipulation  
-blood  
-splinters (I know those squick me so I'm warning you about them just in case)  
-homophobia  
-homophobic language  
-racial slurs/racist language  
-self-deprecation and internalized homophobia  
-BAD experiences with coming out

* * *

January 1994

* * *

Eddie parts ways with Richie, Mike, and Bill at the intersection of Astoria and Kansas, calling, “See you later, alligator,” playfully as he waves over his shoulder. 

“After a while, crocodile!” Richie calls back, shooting finger guns and a wink in his direction. 

He feels warm in spite of the winter chill and the snow that’s practically up to his knees, and it isn’t just because he’s dressed appropriately for the weather conditions (unlike  _ some _ of his friends, who like to think they’re “too cool” for gloves and hats as if they’re  _ also _ “too cool” for frostbite -- and haven’t they all agreed that they’re all Losers anyway and there’s no need for trying to be  _ cool?) _

No, he isn’t warm just because of the wool scarf his aunt in Cleaves Mills knitted for him, or the thrift-store boots he doused in disinfectant spray the moment he brought them home. He knows he should smother it before the flame can get too big but he’s sure he’s rosy-cheeked as he’s stamping up the steps of the front porch and shaking snow off his clothes so he won’t leave a mess in the entryway.

It’s Richie.

He can tell himself not to  _ think _ that all he wants, but he’s starting to realize that won’t make it any less true. Maybe he isn’t  _ allowed _ to like it when Richie kisses his forehead or winks at him or calls him  _ Eds, _ but he does anyway. Maybe he’s not  _ supposed _ to climb into the hammock with him so they can lie side-by-side and he can listen to Richie’s heartbeat, or push him over into the snow under the pretense of attacking him out of annoyance, or sit so close against him at every opportunity that it’s hard to tell which limbs belong to him. 

But he does anyway.

And he doesn’t think he’s going to be able to stop. Not anytime soon. Maybe not  _ ever. _

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get rid of the butterflies or the sense of comfort just being around him (like being at  _ home, _ in ways even this dark, stifling house he grew up in couldn’t compare to) or the  _ wanting -- _ to be held by him, to be safe with him, to just be around him.

His mom can try to fix him all she wants but he doesn’t think it’s ever going to work. He’s in too deep.

It’s terrifying.

It’s exhilarating.

It’s  _ warm. _ Feels like the soft gold of the shine and like late spring and bonfires in the gloaming and like everything is  _ right _ in the world.

(And if that’s how it feels, how could it possibly be  _ wrong?) _

The shock of the cold in the house is enough to rip him away from his musings. Not  _ cold _ cold. Not like outside, where January has a firm grip on the world and his breath hangs heavy in the air long after he’s exhaled and everyone rushes through snow drifts after school to get to the warmth and safety of their homes, to firesides and radiators and places to hang wet socks and mittens. It’s cold where he can  _ feel  _ it, in his head and then trickling through his body (like ice water and salt). Feelings that aren’t  _ his. _

It balances on the razor’s edge between sadness and anger. He doesn’t know what to make of it. 

The house is  _ quiet _ and it’s  _ dark _ and the cold twists around him while he unwraps his winter clothes from his body and hangs everything in its place, trying to pinpoint the source, trying to figure out where his mother is so he can… what? Avoid her? Comfort her? Hold her and ask her what’s wrong, and hope he hasn’t done something to upset her, another transgression to add to the growing list? Every aspect of his life seems to be a failure of his mother’s expectations. He doesn’t like adding more but he’s afraid he can’t let himself  _ live _ if he doesn’t. 

He can’t stand the  _ just existing. _ It’s what she  _ wants, _ the risk-free option, the “home, school, nowhere else” routine, but it’s  _ bleak _ and it’s terrible and he’s hated it so much for so long that there’s been a latch on his bedroom door from her attempts to reinforce it for as long as he can remember. He just  _ wants _ things, like a chance to ride a bike, or a skateboard. To run track, or learn to fix a car, or swim in the public pool (even if he has many of his  _ own _ aversions to that), or try booze or weed with his friends, or eat pizza in Richie’s basement, or -- fuck it --  _ kiss a fucking boy. _

He’s just made the decision to  _ not _ address the icy feeling lingering over the whole house when she calls his name from upstairs, too sweet for the way she  _ feels, _ and he knows he’s fucked up again without even knowing which way he’s pissed her off this time.

Well, he did sneak some of her Pop-Tarts again the other day, and those are supposed to be off-limits (like all the other food), and maybe she noticed them missing? He prays it’s that as he ascends the stairs, fingers crossed. Maybe he can play that off as one of his friends having taken some when he wasn’t looking, but when was the last time any of them were at his house? Bill came by to talk his mom into letting Eddie go to the movies last week, but he didn’t come inside. Is that the best he can do?

She’s in her bedroom. Eddie never goes in her room, not even when she isn’t home, because they have an agreement that it’s off-limits. It isn’t an unspoken one, either. It’s a direct result of him going through her belongings as a kid and getting into his dad’s things, which Sonia had packed away neatly into boxes and shoved to the back of her closet to be forgotten until he opened them back up and reminded her again. She doesn’t want to be reminded. It’s why she rarely, if ever, goes into the garage -- that’s where  _ all _ of Frank’s best memories are held, in rusted toolboxes, model cars and planes, framed photographs on the back wall, shelves of trinkets that only Eddie ever sees. He doesn’t know the stories behind any of them, but it’s enough to have them. 

She doesn’t want to be reminded, so when Eddie had come downstairs in one of his dad’s old dress shirts and a pair of loafers much too large for him, a ring on a chain around his neck, she had  _ screamed _ at him, had sunk to the floor and sobbed, had frightened him so badly with her harsh words that  _ he’d _ cried, too, until she held him and apologized and made him swear never to go in there again.

And he hasn’t, until now.

“Yes, mommy?” he says tentatively, hovering in the doorway, unsure about trespassing even almost a decade later.

She’s sitting at her vanity with her back to him, face just out of view from the angle of the mirror. The room smells old. It smells like dusty perfume bottles and mothballs and curtains that haven’t been opened in years. Everything in here has a faded yellow tinge to it, like old movies. It feels like entering a different reality when she says, “Come here, Eddie-bear,” and he steps over the threshold.

She doesn’t turn to face him until he’s at her side, and when she does her face is pinched and there’s a paper clutched in her pudgy hands. The smell of sweat surrounds her like usual, but worse than that is the taste of her anger, bitter like battery acid, as she asks in a voice laced with blatantly false confusion, “What’s this?”

He thought it was cold before, but it’s like the temperature drops another ten degrees when he reads the bold lettering at the top of the paper, the blue logo declaring  _ “University of Southern Maine” _ and the opening line of,  _ “Dear Mr. Edward F. Kaspbrak” _ and he’s catapulted back to creating lists of desired institutions with the other Losers, to sitting down together day after day to look at the information pamphlets, to discussing course options with each other into the wee hours of morning, because they didn’t need phones for that and they can’t get caught by their parents when they’re talking in their heads. 

To filling out applications, starting essays and then restarting them, and how the whole process had stressed him out so much that even with his debilitating tendency to overthink things, and his slight guilt at having to leave his mother to attend college. His slightly more potent guilt at the  _ desire _ to do so, that motivated him through afternoons of applications that seemed to stretch on forever, wrist cramping, hands stained with ink, Bill falling asleep next to him at their table in the library. He must have screwed up somewhere along the way.

He must have screwed up  _ bad, _ because none of his rejection or acceptance letters should have been mailed  _ here. _

They were supposed to go to Richie’s house. He was supposed to write Richie’s address on them. 

Where had he gone wrong?

And that he hasn’t done anything to prepare her for this, for the fact that he has to  _ leave, _ that he’s  _ going _ to leave no matter what, because he knows for certain he isn’t as strong as Bev -- won’t be able to be apart from the rest of the Losers for so long. He  _ has _ to go with them. 

She had to know, somewhere in her heart, that this was always an inevitability. Eddie is seventeen -- he’s graduating high school in June, and the next logical step is post-secondary. But he knows  _ her _ well enough to understand that she’s probably assumed, his whole life, that even through college he’d live at home with her. Find a course at Derry Community College that would get him a career doing something quiet and risk-free, something he could do from behind a desk. Something that involved a clip-on tie and filing paperwork that would kill him, slowly, from the inside. 

But that’s not what he needs. It’s time she understands this.

So even though he doesn’t actually know anything about the contents of the letter, and he’s just running on hope and adrenaline, he says with a confidence that astounds him, “That’s my acceptance letter to the University of Southern Maine.”

She balks at him but is quick to smooth her features into something less scorned. “And how did you get accepted into a program you didn’t apply for?”

He figures, if he’s going to rip off the Band-Aid, he might as well get it over with, right? “I did apply for it. I applied to lots of programs at lots of places around Portland.”

“Eddie,” she says, in a high-pitched voice that’s probably meant to be soothing but is hovering just under hysterical. “You can’t go to Portland.”

“Why not?”

The paper crumples at the edges where her sweating hands grip it. “Lots of reasons, Eddie-bear. You’re  _ sick, _ you know. You need Mommy to take care of you.”

There it is, he supposes. The opportunity to ‘fess up. He inhales slowly through his nose, tries to calm his racing heart, and says, “No, I’m not.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not sick. The pills you give me are fake, remember?”  _ He _ does, even though he’s found himself constantly questioning the reliability of that revelation over the years, and Greta Keene’s reasons to lie to him weighed against her reasons to tell the truth, and what the fuck does she owe him anyway? But he’s  _ positive, _ now, more than he was at the age of twelve when he screamed in her face and threw them all away. “I stopped taking them over a year ago and I’m  _ fine. _ They don’t do anything. I’m perfectly healthy.” 

He has to handle this  _ better _ than he did at twelve, has to have a more reasonable approach, has to let her down easy. Last time, she hadn’t taken kindly to his sudden defiant behaviour and he’d ended up right back where he’d started. With the additional problems of nightmares about clowns trying to eat him, and a sudden telepathic ability, and the absolute  _ headache _ of not having conclusive evidence that the pills she kept forcing him to swallow were actually  _ doing _ anything for him. 

“You did what?” she asks, slowly, beady eyes unblinking as she rises from her seat at the vanity to tower over him. He has to make a conscious effort not to take a step back. 

“I stopped taking my pills, mom. They’re placebos. I’m  _ fine. _ I can go to college and I’ll be  _ fine, _ because there’s nothing wrong with me.” It’s almost  _ exciting, _ the rush of blood through his body as his heart works overtime, as he stands up to her once more, as he plants his hands on his hips and tips his chin up and knows he’s  _ right _ and that it’s  _ his life _ and that he’s allowed to do things that benefit him, like apply for mechanical engineering programs in Portland. Apply for  _ scholarships _ to those programs. Look at housing listings with his friends and dream about moving out of this hellhole town.

She shakes her head. She’s almost smiling,  _ almost, _ but it’s forlorn at best, and unsettling to boot. “There’s a  _ lot _ wrong with you, Eddie. You just don’t understand, yet. You have to stay here, where Mommy can take care of you. No one else knows how to take care of you like I do.”

Something about that sets off a spark of anger in his chest. Because… because there  _ are _ people in his life who know how to take care of him. Because she isn’t the  _ only one _ and it isn’t fair of her to think she’ll always be the only one. Because sometimes he suspects there are people in his life who know how to take care of him and do it  _ better, _ who can do it without trying to change him or fix him or hurt him. 

Because he remembers, vividly, every time Richie would hold his inhaler to his mouth for him when he couldn’t do it himself, until he could breathe again. But as soon as he’d said,  _ ‘I don’t want to use it anymore,’ _ it had gone away. Now, instead, someone (usually Richie) talks him through figuring out how to breathe again when he needs the help, which is a decency his mother would never afford him. She  _ used _ to know what was best for him, maybe, but he’s becoming his own person and he’s starting to learn what’s  _ really _ best. So he draws himself up to his full, diminutive height and sucks in a breath and says, boldly as he dares, “Yes, they do. My friends do. They know how to take care of me just fine. I’m going with them to Portland because I  _ want _ to.”

Because he needs to get away from the nightmare that is Derry before it’s too late and he  _ can’t _ escape.

“With  _ who?” _

“My  _ friends, _ mom. All of my friends. Bill, and Mike, and Richie, and--”

“You are  _ not  _ going  _ anywhere _ with those…  _ people, _ Edward,” she seethes, her face reddening rapidly. “Do you think I’m going to let you shack up with some...” here she pauses for air, her expression taut with anger, mouth pinching into an enraged ‘o’ as it boils, tangible, just below her skin, “with some  _ negroes _ and  _ fags _ and... I don’t suppose you think you’ll be living with that little Marsh  _ slut, _ too? What kind of parent would I be, to let--”

_ “Stop it!” _ he shouts, fists clenching at his sides, and he hasn’t felt this angry since… since… he doesn’t even  _ know; _ maybe since Belch Huggins hurt Richie, but that had been more  _ panic _ than anything. Maybe since the last time they had an argument like this, when she’d tried to keep him away from the rest of the Losers and he’d let the hurt of it build up inside him until he  _ snapped, _ when Greta Keene told him everything he was putting in his body was just  _ fake, _ just _ bullshit. _ Maybe since he’d waded through shitty water to fight a clown that tried to kill his friends; or since his dad got sick and never came home and he couldn’t understand  _ why _ and  _ none of it was fair. _ Tears spring up in his eyes. “They’re my friends, stop calling them that; they’re my  _ friends, _ and they  _ care about me!” _

“They’re going to  _ corrupt _ you, Eddie. They’re  _ diseased _ and they’re going to pass it on to you. I’m just trying to  _ protect _ you.” 

She’s almost  _ pleading, _ now, but he can still feel that she’s so  _ pissed off _ in spite of it, and the laugh that bursts out of him surprises them both. It’s humourless and bitter. “Is this about  _ me _ again? Because there’s something wrong with  _ me? _ They’re not going to corrupt me at all, because I’m  _ already _ wrong, mom!” He’s trying  _ so hard _ to fight down his own anger. He’s heard before that you can’t fight fire with fire, so he needs to be  _ calm, _ needs to be rational, needs to choose his words wisely if he ever wants to get his way. 

Instead, it’s just mounting until it flows out of him like lava. 

The funniest part is that Richie isn’t even  _ like him, _ despite her beliefs _ \-- _ Richie still talks all the time about fucking girls and makes crude jokes about stuff like panties and tits and  _ sex, _ and Eddie feels almost  _ awful _ for thinking about things like kissing him and being held by him because he’s not  _ like that _ and Eddie’s just chasing some hopeless dream, anyway. 

“It’s fine if I move into a house with a  _ fag, _ or maybe even a whole bunch of fags, because I already  _ am _ one. I already  _ want _ to kiss other boys, and… and touch them.” His heart is pumping so fast he’s worried it might give out on him, send him into cardiac arrest here on his mom’s musty bedroom floor, limbs shaking as he tries to tell himself to  _ stop _ and urge himself to keep going all at once. 

Just  _ get it out, get it over with, just  _ ** _snap_ ** _ and tell her how you really feel and then try to pick up the pieces later, _ even while some other, more rational voice screeches  _ stop stop stop  _ ** _stop stop,_ ** _ quit while you’re ahead. _

He doesn’t. He can’t. 

He’s started on his tangent and now it’s snowballing while his mom’s eyes go wide in her oily face. “And maybe I’ll move to Portland and meet a bunch of other fags who will fuck me up the ass and give me AIDS like them, ‘cause I’m just another  _ prissy little faggot _ who--”

Maybe if his vision wasn’t blurred with tears he would’ve seen it coming. Maybe if he wasn’t so distracted by the pitch-black veil of  _ rage _ that slams down around his mother in that moment, he could have braced himself. As it stands, he barely holds onto the seal he keeps up between himself and his friends (the one he’s been clinging to extra-tight for the duration of this argument, to protect them from it) when something smashes into the side of his face and shatters on impact. The cloying smell of his mom’s favourite perfume invades his senses. It stings in his eyes and it  _ burns _ in the cuts that split open across his cheek and forehead as he tumbles over backwards from the force. 

The tears he was holding back spill over from the pain of it, a strangled sound leaving him as his ears ring and his eyes burn and he reaches up to feel his damaged face. His fingers come away coated with blood. The many layers of anger his mother conjured up without knowing he could feel it on her begin to dissipate, just like that, with him prone on the floor in front of her, bleeding and crying.

“Oh, Eddie-bear,” she breathes, taking a step towards him, and he stumbles a few times in his haste to get to his feet and  _ run, run far away, don’t look back. _

_ Don’t look back. _

He doesn’t quite know what to do, now, because she’s never  _ done _ that before. This is uncharted territory. His mother has never  _ hit _ him. 

Alvin Marsh used to hit Beverly. But Alvin Marsh was a bad parent. He didn’t love his daughter -- not properly. Not the way parents are supposed to love their children. 

But his mom loves  _ him, _ and he can’t reconcile that knowledge with the stinging pain in his cheek and the blood dripping off his chin. Sonia Kaspbrak  _ loves _ him, she just doesn’t always  _ understand _ him, and even though he’s mad as  _ fuck _ at her for insulting his friends and for refusing to just let him be himself, he knows all she ever wants is to protect him.

You can’t protect your kids by  _ hitting _ them. 

He barely remembers to grab his boots on his way out the door, let alone any of his other winter gear, and by the time Sonia makes it to the front porch, breathless but screaming his name, he’s racing southwest down Kansas Street.

Richie’s house is the goal. That just seems logical. No matter where they are in life, he’ll always find the most comfort in Richie’s presence. 

But, irony of all ironies, Richie is out to dinner with his parents, at that new Chinese place over by Derry Heights, the  _ Jade of the Orient, _ to celebrate his own acceptance to the very school that put Eddie in this situation. He tries to focus on that for a moment, on Richie’s family and the vibrant atmosphere and the laughter and the pride from his parents, even though Richie had agonized for  _ months _ over whether or not they’d be alright with him applying to a performing arts program in any capacity, as if he ever had anything to worry about.

The cold seeps through Eddie’s overalls and even the scratchy wool of his sweater can’t do much to combat it, and he wishes he’d stopped to grab his coat. But he was in a frenzy (still kind of is), and he’s glad to be out of there even if he  _ is  _ freezing his ass off. It  _ hurts _ and it only serves as a reminder of the things that happen when your parents  _ can’t _ accept parts of you, even --  _ especially  _ \-- the parts that feel significant. 

He could climb in Richie’s window and wait there for him for as long as it takes, but he’s pretty sure he needs some first aid as soon as possible, the kind he probably can’t do himself, and he doesn’t want to interrupt Richie’s family dinner because he’s  _ happy _ and Eddie’s a fucking mess and that’s just altogether unfair of him. Besides, that’s probably the first place his mom will look, if not Bill’s house, and he wants to put off being found for as long as possible.

He thinks very hard about it, and then not at all. His feet carry him the rest of the way down Kansas seemingly on their own, and by the time he’s arrived at the Hanlon’s front door he’s shivering and most of the blood is either dried or frozen and he has some very real concerns about frostbite.

* * *


	37. What the "knowing" is for, part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're really trying their best, but if Eddie doesn't cooperate with them, what can they possibly do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I just say that the comments on the last chapter had me howling with laughter??
> 
> Lol you're all so naively optimistic :')
> 
> Warnings for this chapter:  
-blood & injury  
-slivers  
-internalized homophobia  
-panic attacks  
-just a generally unhealthy state of mind

* * *

January 1994

* * *

Mike is still gingerly cleaning blood from his face when the first knock comes. “Sorry, one second,” he says as he sets the cloth aside, disappearing from the washroom. Eddie picks it up and turns where he’s sitting on the counter to finish the job himself. Mike’s been trying to pick glass splinters from his face, but he can’t be sure he’s got it all with the blood everywhere, and Eddie’s not much help with figuring out if there’s still shards of perfume bottle embedded in his skin because, it hurts  _ everywhere, _ so he’s pretty much useless.

His hands are trembling from a combination of the adrenaline that got him here fading, and the cold he hasn’t recovered from (Mr. Hanlon draped a blanket over his shoulders and went straight to the kitchen to make tea when he saw the state Eddie was in). Still, he lifts the cloth to his face and keeps wiping the blood away, wincing and hissing as he pulls on the cuts and puts too much pressure on the bruises, until the bathroom door bangs open again and Bill is standing there, flushed and panting, snow melting all over his clothes. Eddie gets the impression that he tripped at least once on his walk (run?) here. Mike follows close behind him, an apology already on his lips when the second knock comes.

_ ‘Just let yourselves in. It’s unlocked,’  _ he informs the group at large. The front door creaks open and slams shut. Bill still hasn’t even  _ said _ anything. Hasn’t even moved from where he’s clinging to the door jamb for support, too busy heaving for air. Yeah, he definitely ran all the way here. In fact, Bill is just leaning forward like he’s going to walk into the room when Richie nearly bowls him over in his haste to get through, hair wild and eyes wilder, and slams into the opposite wall when he can’t control his momentum.

“Fuckin’ Jesus  _ shit, _ Eddie, what the  _ Christ?” _ Richie crowds into Eddie’s space and takes the wet cloth from his hand, running it under the tap to rinse some of the blood away. “What the hell happened? Was it fucking Criss? What did he do to you?” He can  _ feel _ Richie trying to dig around in his mind, trying to see past whatever barriers Eddie’s got up to the root of the problem, and Richie is probably the  _ last _ person he would want seeing that. Richie doesn’t need to know about the sickness he carries with him every day of his life, or that his mom is  _ terrified _ of that part of him, or that he’s been the object of Eddie’s affections for as long as he can remember, even if it took him years and years to admit it.

He’s never seen anyone else the way he sees Richie, and he thinks it would destroy him if Richie found out and turned his back on him. Eddie tries to imagine Richie turning those words from their bullies on  _ him, _ the same taunting bullshit coming from someone whose opinion actually  _ matters.  _ The way he turned them on himself not even an hour ago. One thing is for certain: he wouldn’t be able to handle that. 

Richie doesn’t need to know  _ those _ details. He’s cradling Eddie’s chin in his hands while he inspects the damage, and Eddie speaks for the first time since he fled his house, bottom lip wobbling where the pad of Richie’s thumb presses against it. He’s at risk of starting to cry again, because it still  _ hurts _ and he’s still shaking. He can hear Bev trying to reach him through the bond, all soft concern and questions that are carefully manufactured so as not to set him off again. “It wasn’t Criss,” he starts, then clears his throat because it feels all sticky from how much he cried and his voice comes out hoarse. “It was… It was my mom. She opened my letter from USM. I-- I don’t even know what it said, honestly, but she’s mad. We had an argument.”

It’s quiet. Richie’s hand goes still where he’s scrubbing streaks of blood from Eddie’s jaw and throat. The front door opens and closes twice in succession and there’s a soft commotion from the entryway before two sets of footsteps pound across the floor towards them. 

“What happened?” Ben and Stan ask in near-perfect unison, trying to push their way into the already-overcrowded room.

Everyone’s staring at him, silent except for Bev asking him to just  _ talk _ to her, trying to be soothing. But he thinks that’s just making him more tense, and he lowers his gaze to his knees to avoid it all. His hands curl into fists in the fabric of his pants. 

Mike clears his throat. “We’ll be in the living room,” he says pointedly, and only Bill tries to protest as they’re all ushered out of the room and the blood-stained cloth scrapes across Eddie’s skin again, slow, hesitant. Richie picks up the tweezers from the counter and plucks a piece of clear glass from just below his cheekbone. 

“What did she do?” Richie asks, anger simmering just below the surface when he speaks, even though Eddie can see he’s pieced together a pretty clear picture of what took place already. Hell, he can probably  _ smell _ it on him. And, sure, despite all his teasing and his joking around, Eddie  _ knows _ Richie’s never been fond of Sonia Kaspbrak (who can blame him, with the way she talks about him?) but he’s not sure he’s ever been quite so  _ tangibly pissed _ at her. 

Richie’s a pacifist at heart, and it’s rare to see him like this. Rare to feel anger like embers filling the spaces between them, anger that isn’t his  _ own, _ because it’s  _ usually _ his own. It unsettles him. He wants to fix it right now; he wants to divert that anger away from his mother and soothe it and he wants Richie to make an inappropriate jibe that will have him laughing nonetheless. But when he tries to fix it, he opens his mouth and says the exact wrong thing. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have--” He can’t quite explain that the way he spoke to her was  _ awful _ and  _ wrong _ and he should have shut the fuck up when he first realized he was going too far, so he sighs as Richie’s fingers prod at his cheek, looking for more splinters.

“No,” he says, an ugly frown distorting his face, “it fucking isn’t. I don’t care what you should or shouldn’t have done, this isn’t okay, and it  _ definitely _ isn’t your fucking fault.”

Eddie knows he’s wrong but he can’t explain why, and he’s so  _ tired _ and he’s hurting and he’s  _ cold. _ He just wants to be a good fucking  _ son, _ and he keeps fucking it up. He wants his mom to love him even when he isn’t perfect. And he  _ doesn’t want to have this argument, _ so neither of them gets much forewarning before his expression crumples and he starts crying again despite his best efforts. Richie doesn’t hesitate to pull him into an embrace. He’s still perched on the bathroom counter, so Richie stands between his legs and just  _ holds _ him with Eddie’s ear pressed to the space above his heart, uncaring of the blood still seeping slowly from the cuts lining his face, or the tears soaking his shirt, or the snot he’s  _ sure _ is running from his nose. He’s  _ tired. _ He feels so fucking  _ guilty, _ not just for the way he spoke to his mother but for being like  _ this, _ even if it’s something beyond his control.

Richie presses a kiss to his forehead and he loves that  _ so much _ and that only makes the guilt  _ heavier, _ makes him cry  _ more. _

Richie’s not so much angry at Sonia anymore as he is dulled, somehow, everything numb and grey except for a deep blue ache in his chest and a burning in his throat, and Eddie feels worse yet for making Richie feel that way at all.

_ ‘Come on,’ _ Richie says after a while, after he’s spent long enough swaying gently back and forth with Eddie in his arms that Eddie’s breathing has started to even out.  _ ‘I’ll get you patched up so you can sleep, yeah?’ _ And Eddie’s so exhausted he just nods and lets Richie wipe the tears away, and wishes so bad that he’d just hold him like that forever, even if that’s a terribly selfish thing to think.

He uses the antibiotic cream in Eddie’s fanny pack at his instruction, comments on how the nasty medicinal smell covers up the nasty perfume smell (Eddie cracks a smile at that), and tapes little patches of gauze to the largest of the cuts, the ones that refuse to stop bleeding. 

Everyone is still waiting in the living room when they’re finished. None of them dare ask any questions yet, and for that he’s grateful, even though the hushed conversation they’re having is cut off abruptly as they emerge from the washroom. Mr. Hanlon pushes a mug of warm tea into his hands and he’s escorted to the couch to sit between Richie and Mike, exhaustion settling into his bones as he sips at the drink and the quiet chatter starts up around him again. Buttercup takes up position at his feet, her cold nose occasionally snuffling at his ankles. She keeps huffing, like the world is weighing down on her little doggy shoulders, like she’s weary of it all. Her tail thumps idly against the floor anyway.

Richie’s elbow digs into his side when he almost falls asleep with his face in the mug, and then Mike is taking it from his hands to place it on the side table, and he’s so  _ quiet _ and fucking  _ careful _ when he crouches down in front of him and says, “You can sleep in my bed, if you want.”

He shakes his head. “Don’t wanna make you sleep on the couch.”

“Oh, you think I have any opposition to sharing?” And Mike’s grinning, dimpled, eyes sparkling; all golden and perfect and charming. It isn’t as if Eddie’s never shared a bed (or a hammock, or a couch, or an air mattress) with any of his friends before. It’s just that it’s usually Richie. 

So he nods, trying to mirror the playful look, but that just makes all the injured parts of his face twinge. “Okay.” And as if to emphasize the point that he’s fucking  _ tired, _ because coming down from an adrenaline high and a thirty-minute sprint through snow and crying like a fucking baby all wear a person out pretty damn fast, a yawn swells in his lungs. 

“‘Kay, c’mon.” Eddie really doesn’t have the heart to protest being treated like a fucking child because he honestly thinks he  _ needs _ it, right now, so he just lets Mike take him by the arm and lead him down the hallway to his bedroom, Buttercup trailing loyally behind, and he lets Mike dig around in his dresser until he finds his smallest pair of flannel pyjama bottoms and an old hoodie that’s worn at the elbows -- he doesn’t have any hang-ups about changing into the fresh clothes, not damp with melted snow or covered in droplets of his own blood, while Mike is still in the room. He’s seen worse, after all. They’ve skinny-dipped together in the quarry more than once. He lets Mike all but tuck him into bed and he whispers a barely-there, “Thank you,” before he leaves.

But even when he’s so exhausted it makes him feel like gravity is dragging him down with more force than ever, even though he’s warm and safe and comfortable with his face pressed to Mike’s pillows, Buttercup a warm weight on his legs, he can’t sleep right away. He tries to eavesdrop on the conversations the Losers are having down the hall, both through the bond and through the quiet reverberations of their voices in the walls, with little success. He can tell, in some ways, that Stan has moved closer to sit beside Richie and that they’re talking to each other silently through the shine, and it’s a conversation he is one hundred percent not allowed to be a part of. He can still hear Bev asking after him, no longer solely in his headspace but everyone else’s, too, and the reassurances whispered her way.

He can’t sleep, even though he  _ wants _ to. 

He listens to them to drown out the aching -- not just in his body. It’s foreboding and guilt and fear of loss all bundled up neatly into one awful feeling, pressing on his skin and making his head pound, and... how could he? How could he do that to his mother? How could he use those words in front of her? 

How could he, after so many years of denying it, of agreeing with her that he  _ isn’t _ like that, that everyone’s suspicions about him are  _ wrong, _ that he’s  _ fine _ and he’s  _ normal _ and he’ll grow up and marry some faceless, nameless woman who tells him when to take his pills and reminds him he can’t run and makes sure he doesn’t eat anything that could set his allergies off (even if that leaves nothing of nutritional value in his diet: white bread and crackers, white bread and crackers, he’s always so  _ fucking hungry) _ . 

How could he take it all back with such  _ ease? _ And now she  _ knows, _ as if she didn’t already. Knows for  _ sure. _ Will be righteously smug where she isn’t inconsolably  _ angry _ with him. 

He’s not the son she wanted and he doesn’t know how to be.

He  _ does _ know he wants to be able to accept himself and he keeps trying to move forward but his mother keeps dragging him back. He wants to be able to tell himself he’s  _ okay. _ He’s going to be okay, not just because he wants to be but because he  _ has _ to be. No matter the outcome when he confronts her about it next. 

Mike comes into the room quietly, though he surely knows Eddie is still awake, staring at a fixed point on the wall where the old floral wallpaper is peeling. Thinking about every mistake he’s ever made. Wishing he could go back out there and sit with his friends and feel  _ better, _ but they’re long gone now and the moon is climbing in the sky outside the window. Wishing his cheek wasn’t a lattice of jagged cuts from glass shards, strips of gauze and medical tape pressed to the pillow under him, eye swollen just enough to be uncomfortable.

Wishing he would learn to shut the fuck up when his voice of reason, which he’s pretty sure doesn’t even belong to  _ him _ at all but to something else entirely, tells him to.

Mike changes into a mismatched pyjama set and then the space under the covers beside Eddie warms as he lies beside him. He stares at that little tab of wallpaper sticking out from the wall and wonders if his mom will send him to one of those conversion camps. Ben mentioned those one time in passing -- “ _ those camps they send gay people to, to make them…  _ ** _not_ ** _ gay, except… except usually they just end up killing themselves,” _ he’d said with a shudder, while they’d sat in the sunshine at the quarry and solemnly discussed all the horrors of the world around them, and Bev had said something about the AIDS epidemic always on the news and the conversation had gone places that made Eddie glad he never let anyone into his head. 

He wonders, too, if his mom’s still mad about the college thing or if she’s more mad that her son is a filthy deviant, or whatever she’s calling them these days. She watches the news, too, and ever since she told Eddie the truth about AIDS on accident she doesn’t switch it off when he’s in the room anymore and just makes loud and rude comments instead.

“You doing alright?” Mike asks, in barely more than a whisper. Like if he’s too loud the rest of Eddie will break, too. 

Eddie nods against the pillow. It gets quiet again for a while, long enough that Eddie would think Mike was falling asleep if he couldn’t see into his head.  _ None of them _ are falling asleep. There are lies being cooked up in the face of questions from their parents about taking off out of the blue like that, and that heavy grey feeling from their collarbones down to the bottom of their ribs they get whenever Bill goes into Georgie’s bedroom (the sound of Stan telling him not to do that,  _ just go to bed, he only ever makes himself feel worse when he does that). _ There’s faint clattering from the kitchen on the other side of the house as Mr. Hanlon cleans up and gets ready for bed. There’s Richie chasing his thoughts around and around until they’re incomprehensible again, and the  _ click _ of his Walkman turning on so that  _ Africa _ drowns out everything else, for all of them. He’s going to hurt his eardrums doing that, Eddie can’t help but think, and then Mike’s warm eyes are reflecting the moonlight as he turns to face him.

“I have to tell you something,” Eddie blurts out before he can stop himself, and then immediately he can  _ feel _ his heart pounding, taste it like rich copper, suffocating. Mike must sense it, because Eddie’s  _ sure _ he doesn’t have a handle on it in the slightest. But he doesn’t panic alongside him, just nods.

Just nods, still all warm and understanding, and says, “Okay. You know you can tell me anything, right? You can tell  _ any _ of us anything. Losers gotta stick together.”

_ Losers gotta stick together. _ Richie reminds them of this at least once a week, as if they were ever going to forget it in the first place. 

It goes all quiet again except this time Eddie’s struggling to breathe, a little bit, thinking about the inhaler in the fanny pack that’s now hung on the door handle and how long it’s been since he used it. 

He cannot  _ fucking believe _ he told his mom that, and with such  _ confidence, _ and in such a  _ crude _ manner. He can’t believe he told his mom before any of his friends when she was the only person he  _ never _ wanted to know.

Eventually it’s going to boil down to this: Eddie is going to get over Richie, or he isn’t, but he’s still going to have to move on. And he’s not going to stop liking other boys that way just because the one boy who made him  _ realize  _ he’s…  _ that way _ doesn’t return his feelings. He’s going to  _ move on _ and one day, maybe in the near future or maybe a very, very long time from now, when he sees a world where he maybe doesn’t have to be so afraid all the time, he’s going to find someone who likes him back just as much. The Losers will meet him. They’ll know eventually. They’ll know whether he tells them now or keeps holding onto his secrets forever. They’ll find out, or he’ll grow old and die alone.

Not  _ alone _ alone, but he won’t find his  _ person _ the way people so often seem to. And in spite of all his qualms he wants that,  _ desperately _ wants that -- wants someone to hold him the way Richie sometimes does but to love him  _ back _ with the same ferocity he stupidly allows himself love to Richie with.

“I think I’m…” He inhales slowly through his nose and lets it out a little bit at a time. He’s trying not to look right at Mike as he struggles with the words, struggles to keep his racing heart from just giving out on him. Is he just going to get himself kicked out of Mike’s house, too? Is that how this culminates? Back in the cold, back in the snow, making the trek to someone else’s house and never letting himself say these words ever,  _ ever _ again because the outcome is always going to hurt? He takes another calming breath. “You have to promise not to get mad. Okay? I need you to not get mad.”

“Eddie, I swear I won’t be mad. I couldn’t be. You know that.”

Eddie tries to smile at that but it feels forced. “Yeah, I do. I do know that.”

He still hesitates, but Mike’s hand engulfs his own and he twines their fingers together and Eddie thinks that even if Mike  _ does _ judge him, he’s too nice to react the way Eddie’s shame is making him expect. “Um,” he says. Squeezes Mike’s hand in his own and gets a squeeze in return. “I like… boys.”

He says it so quiet he can hardly hear himself. It occurs to him a few seconds too late that this probably isn’t the best secret to share with a boy whose bed you are currently sharing. But it’s out, so there’s no going back. He can handle sleeping on the couch if that’s what Mike wants. “I… sorry, I--” He tries to pull his hand away -- he’ll just get up and go now if he’s going to make Mike uncomfortable. That’s not fair to him. He was just trying to do something nice for Eddie. 

Except Mike holds fast.

“Okay,” he says. Eddie’s trying not to choke on his own heart. “Thank you for telling me. Are you alright?”

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean that’s a pretty scary thing to share. Are you alright?”

Eddie starts to nod, thinks better of it, and shakes his head instead. He scrunches his face up, rolls onto his back to face the ceiling, and throws his free arm over his eyes because he’s fucking crying again. He doesn’t  _ mean _ to but today has just been fucking  _ horrible, _ and he really, for a second there, thought Mike would hate him. How could he  _ ever _ think Mike would hate him? Some fucking friend he is.

“Eddie,” Mike says, slow, like he’s talking to a cornered animal and he’s trying not to startle it, “can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Eddie manages through the tears, sniffling miserably. He keeps his arm over his face because it’s somehow easier this way. He feels less exposed.

“What happened tonight, did that have anything to do with--?”

Eddie startles them both by laughing bitterly. It sounds ragged enough that he can feel Mike wince. “I mean, yeah. I was stupid to tell her. I know how she is. But it really was about my college applications, at first. Things just got out of hand. I didn’t  _ mean  _ to… I just, I guess I shouldn’t have told her. That was  _ stupid.” _

Mike hums. His hand is still wrapped around Eddie’s, still reassuring, and he’s just managed to dry his face again when Mike says, “It wasn’t. Stupid, I mean.” He’s rolled over to face Eddie properly so Eddie chances peering at him out of the corner of his eye. “You should feel safe sharing important things with your parents. It shouldn’t be an ordeal. It should be  _ safe. _ I don’t think it’s right that--”

“No.” Eddie cuts him off without really thinking to. He doesn’t want to hear what Mike has to say. Doesn’t want to hear more criticisms of his mom’s parenting skills. She’s doing this  _ all alone, _ and all he ever does is make his own upbringing more complicated for her. That’s why it’s so much easier to keep her in the dark about things like the track team, his sort-of-job, being  _ gay. _ Even if it causes him more trouble, it gives  _ her _ less to worry about. Right? “She’s not… it wasn’t her fault, I swear. It was the way I  _ said _ it. I was just trying to make her mad. It’s not her fault she doesn’t like that I’m… y’know. She’s just scared. For me. She’s scared ‘cause there’s, like, an AIDS crisis, and she just doesn’t want me to get hurt. Or sick. She’s just scared for me and I just threw it in her face like that.”

Mike doesn’t say anything for a long time, but Eddie can feel him staring. He knows he’s right. He knows his mom well enough to  _ see _ that in her. That she might hate everyone else like him but she doesn’t hate  _ him. _ Just hates the idea that his affliction could kill him, some day. The same way she thought one day asthma would kill him, or an allergic reaction would, or a bite from the wrong insect. But he’s fine. He’ll be fine. There’s a special kind of uncertainty to it this time, because all those illnesses were fake and he knew that, maybe for longer than he allowed himself to believe it, despite so many other people seeming to  _ know. _

_ (He runs quite fast when you’re not around) _

This isn’t  _ fake. _ This is going to be his reality. 

He’s going to leave Derry. He’s going to pack up his shit and drive off with his best friends, go to Portland and get a degree. He’s going to be the version of himself his mom fears, that she tried to make  _ him _ fear, and he’s going to either do it behind his friends’ backs or proudly, if he can ever work up the courage. He’s… he’s probably going to kiss another boy. Properly. Maybe do more, if he’s feeling particularly reckless, as he often becomes in his mother’s absence. Maybe it’ll be someone tall and thin with full lips and coke-bottle glasses, someone who laughs until they snort at their own jokes and can’t get a comb through their hair, who--

“We all love you,” Mike says. “The Losers. You know how you love all of us?” Knowing the exact feeling he’s referring to, Eddie nods. Hell, he’s probably felt it  _ through _ Eddie before, on one of the occasions in which he’s had to stop and just  _ breathe _ through the overwhelming fondness he feels for them all. That familiar  _ ‘I would die for them’ _ feeling. “We all feel the same. About you. About each other. We want you to be safe. You can trust us with anything, you know that, right?”

“Yeah.” Eddie finally turns his head to look at Mike properly again, and he’s not sure why he’s surprised to find him crying. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize. We just want you to be happy.”

Eddie inches forward to envelop him in a tentative hug, and Mike wraps himself all around him, squeezing tight, and it’s actually kind of sweet. Even though he’s probably fucked up his relationship with his mother beyond repair, and he’s going to have a bitch of a time making amends, and he’s got all these new nagging worries about college, he kind of feels like everything’s going to be alright. Just in this moment. “I think you’re really great,” he tells Mike. “Oh, but I don’t mean that in, like, the, y’know… queer way. I mean like I think you’re a great friend and I like hanging out with you.”

“Yeah, I know.” Mike laughs a little. It’s almost sad. “You tell me all the time. And I can feel it, sometimes.”

“I can’t wait to live with you guys. It’ll be like a sleepover every day.”

_ “That’s _ the part that’s exciting?”

“Oh, sorry, I also can’t wait for all that homework, and having to deal with Richie’s dirty socks all over the furniture. It’ll be a blast.”

Now Mike  _ actually _ laughs, his whole body shaking with it, and it sets Eddie off, too. “I can’t wait to waste all my hard-earned money on rent and textbooks, and for Bill to set the kitchen on fire trying to make pancakes.”

“Oh, yeah, he  _ is _ that bad,” Eddie says, laughing so hard that he’s  _ snorting _ and his face  _ hurts. _ “Can we ban him from the kitchen?”

“For sure. The kitchen is going to require a password to enter, like we’re little kids with a secret hideout. ‘No Bills allowed.’”

“You’re gonna end up doing a lot of cooking, I think. Not many of us are good at it. I think it’s gonna end up being you and Bev trying to teach the rest of us to use an oven.”

Mike shrugs. The movement jostles both of them where they’re still tangled around each other. His chin brushes the top of Eddie’s head. “Fine by me. As long as someone else is willing to be on Richie-handling duty.”

“‘Someone else’? As if  _ any  _ of you guys do that. That’s like my full-time job already. He’s a fucking menace.”

“Exactly! So you can keep your job while I cook. We’ll make him room with you so you can keep an eye on him.”

Eddie  _ tsks _ and leans back just enough to look Mike dead in the eye. “Why the fuck would you do that to me?”

“Because you’re the only one who can put up with Toodles the English Butler twenty-four hours a day. The rest of us need recovery time. You’ve got this.”

“Yeah,  _ right.” _

  
  


There’s this unspoken agreement that they’re all going to skip school the next day, apparently, because by eight o’clock there are a bunch of Losers on Mike’s front porch, pouring through the door to interrupt breakfast when Mike gets up to open it.

“I made enough for everyone,” he tells them as they shed coats and toques, all kind eyes that none of them can get enough of. They won’t all fit at the table so they end up scattered across the living room with plates of toast and eggs and sausage balanced on their laps, and no one really says anything of significance until Bill is setting his empty plate on the coffee table and sighing. 

“We gotta talk.”

Eddie’s immediately on the defensive (why  _ shouldn’t _ he be?) as everyone turns to him on instinct. “Listen, if this is about my fucking  _ mom--” _

“Actually, it’s about  _ fucking _ your mom,” Richie interrupts hastily, looking between everyone to gauge their reactions like he expects a big cheer from the audience for his terrible, poorly-timed humour. “No? No? Okay, just trying to lighten the damn mood, geez.”

_ “Really _ not the time, Richie,” Stan chastises, as if Richie wasn’t already quite aware of that.

“Seriously, guys--” Bill tries, but this time Eddie cuts him off.

“It doesn’t fucking matter, okay? It was my fault, anyway.” He doesn’t want to air his dirty laundry to  _ all _ of his friends. Telling Mike was enough. He can trust Mike with it. He can trust Mike with anything, he’s pretty sure. “She’s never done that before. It was a fluke! She doesn’t hit me, you guys. You don’t need to be here invading my privacy about it, alright?”

“It was  _ not _ your fucking fault,” Richie growls in the same moment Ben leans forward, curiosity lighting his features, and asks, “She’s  _ never _ hit you before?”

“No,” Eddie says firmly, ignoring Richie altogether. 

“Are you… I mean, you know you can tell us the truth, right?” 

“That  _ is _ the truth!”

Ben regards him openly for a long while, like Eddie is a puzzle he’s struggling to piece together, before he says, “Are you sure? Because -- and I’m only being honest here -- sometimes I get the feeling something’s going on.”

In his head, but far in the distance, in a conversation he isn’t even close to being a part of, he can hear Beverly reprimanding Ben, maybe for prying, maybe for making Eddie feel the way he suddenly feels, like metal shavings digging into his skin and all his defensive anger seeping out of him in a cold stream. It must show on his face, because then Stan and Richie and Bill are exchanging this  _ look, _ this one that says,  _ now hold on, wait a second, something  _ ** _is_ ** _ going on here, _ and oh no, oh big fucking  _ no. _

He can’t give them the whole truth. Not yet. Maybe one day,  _ maybe, _ but it’s not going to be today. He can’t explain that all that’s happening is his mom trying to find solutions to his… “deviancies.” Not without explaining what those are. It isn’t that he doesn’t trust his friends and love them all very,  _ very _ much, but he’s  _ scared. _ He’s  _ rightfully _ scared, considering the way Victor Criss treats him for just the way he walks and talks and dresses.

Hadn’t he been doing a good job of hiding it? Hiding the things that happen at home because, frankly, they’re fucking embarassing. Of course he’d hide it, the same way they all hide personal things, because  _ who the fuck wants to see that? _ He doesn’t need to know the intricacies of everyone else’s home lives any more than they need to know  _ his. _ He was so convinced that he’d been doing so well. That no one knew. No one would ever know. Do they  _ all _ know? Do they know about… about  _ why _ she hit him? That’s what scares him the most, he thinks, and what leaves him feeling the coldest, and like he can’t breathe.

Yeah, he can’t breathe. 

He doesn’t use the inhaler anymore because he doesn’t  _ need _ it and he especially doesn’t  _ want _ it. Richie doesn’t try to help him use it anymore, either, because he respects his wishes, so he’s grateful when Richie’s weight settles onto the couch beside him and he’s being dragged into his lap. “It’s okay,” he says, low, right by his ear, as broad hands rub over his back. “It’s okay. You got this.”

He does. He always does, especially when Richie breathes deep and slow for him, and Eddie’s ear is pressed to his chest, and Richie’s chin digs into the top of his head in a way that grounds him instead of bothering him. He almost works himself back into a frenzy when he realizes there’s no getting out of this one now, because everyone’s gonna think something is wrong just based on how he reacted, and the problem is  _ him _ and he’s so  _ fucking sick of this, _ so sick of feeling burdened. But the panic  _ can’t  _ come back when Richie’s got his arms around him like this. His heart keeps a steady rhythm as he listens, and everything he can feel through the shine is just comfort and reassurance, soft greens like meadows in summer and yellow like sunshine, and Richie’s voice in his head instructing,  _ ‘In. Hold. Out.’ _

Eddie…  _ really _ fucking likes Richie. So much it hurts, sometimes. He has for a really fucking long time, maybe before he even knew what love was. He doesn’t  _ blame _ him for the things his mother does to try to fix him, even though he knows that’s what she wants. It wouldn’t make a difference if he’d never even met Richie -- he’d still be who he is. He knows he never wants to look at girls the way he looks at boys. He knows he’ll never feel attraction to the likes of Greta Keene and Sally Mueller the way he used to feel about Bill (more of a hero-crush, if he’s being honest with himself), or Mike (because fucking  _ look _ at him,  _ honestly), _ or, of course, Richie, who Eddie sometimes thinks holds his heart in his hands. Like if he squeezes hard enough it will be enough to kill Eddie, and Eddie probably wouldn’t even mind that. 

But that doesn’t mean he wants to  _ tell _ him. So instead he pieces together an excuse, a half-truth, and when he’s not hyperventilating anymore and Richie’s hands are still warm on his back, his stupid fucking pointy chin still jabbing into the top of his head, he knows they’re waiting for an explanation. Can sense it. He gives one to them.

“I hate that she tries to treat me like I’m still a little kid. I should be allowed to spend time with you guys when I want. I should be allowed to be on the track and field team without getting in trouble. She thinks I’m gonna fucking  _ break _ in a strong breeze or some shit. And I  _ know _ that’s not fair, because she just  _ cares _ and she just wants me to be safe, but it’s so… it’s so fucking  _ frustrating.” _ Wisely, he doesn’t mention the fact that she doesn’t “want” him to be gay for much the same reasons, and that’s what got him in this position in the first place. But it’s mostly the truth. He needs space. He craves independence. He wants to be left the fuck alone sometimes. “I’m not  _ sick. _ There’s nothing wrong with me, but she just keeps treating me like there  _ is.” _

_ (Isn’t there?) _

And that’s it. That’s it. That’s all he’s going to give them, because he doesn’t pry into the shit that goes on with  _ their _ families, and besides, they’re all leaving town in a few months’ time and that’ll be the end of it. He’ll have his freedom and his independence and  _ whatever, _ provided he can get his mother to agree to him attending university.

Chances may be slim after  _ that _ ordeal, but fuck it -- it won’t hurt to try.

And the sooner he tries, the better. He’s got to cook up a  _ real good _ apology,  _ real _ quick.

He practically leaps to his feet, jostling Richie as he does so. “Sorry, I-- shit, I gotta go. Fuck. I have to talk her into letting me go to fucking Portland after that. Oh, God.” He groans into his hands. He might have ruined everything.

“Eddie, you…” Ben glances around the room as if hoping to gather support, “you can’t go back there. Have you  _ seen _ your face? No offense.”

“No, it’s fine. Like I said, this is my fault, I just have to apologize. That was so fucking stupid.  _ Ugh.” _

He understands  _ why _ she did it. She’s only trying to protect him. He knows the risks of his affliction just as well as she does and he  _ knows _ she’s so, so afraid for his well-being when it comes to things like that. Like AIDs. Like the way navigating the world suddenly becomes a hundred times more dangerous when you’re gay. How people in Derry have  _ died _ for less. 

How she’s afraid for him and what the future holds, and all he’s done is frighten her more. 

He might as well have spat in her face. She’s only trying to protect him and he’s only making that more difficult, and he shouldn’t have talked to her that way -- she’s his  _ mother _ and she loves him, she’s trying to take care of him, he’s  _ all she has. _

He deserved it. No matter what everyone else keeps trying to tell him, he deserved it for acting the way he did and talking to her the way he did and  _ being  _ the way he is. 

This one’s on him.

He hopes she’ll forgive him.

_ ‘Eddie, I  _ ** _really_ ** _ don’t think you should leave,’ _ Stan is trying to say, but it comes through all fuzzy and staticky and besides, Eddie’s made up his mind anyway. 

“I don’t want Mike’s grandpa to get in trouble. What if she calls the police? This almost counts as kidnapping,” he counters, having already thought this through, several times over, weighed all the options and potential outcomes and settled on the best course of action. 

“If she calls the fucking  _ police _ we’ll report her?” says Richie, sounding flabbergasted. 

“Report her?”

Richie’s mouth snaps shut and he looks to Bill, eyes bulging, but Eddie’s  _ really _ gotta go because he needs to have a very long, conciliatory conversation with his mom, and the sun is making a quick ascent towards noon. If he wants to go to school tomorrow it’s best to get a start on it early so they can make their peace and go to bed at a reasonable time.

He imagines he probably won’t be going to school tomorrow  _ anyway, _ not after the shit he pulled, but if he gets back  _ sooner _ rather than later she’ll probably forgive him easier and might not even do up the latch outside his door tonight. 

“Eddie,” Bill says, clear and semi-confident, “what if she huh-huh-hurts you?” It’s so rare to hear Bill stutter nowadays that it throws him for a loop almost as much as the question itself.

“She’s my mom,” he explains slowly. “She loves me. She won’t hurt me.” She tells him so, sometimes. He’s a good boy. He’s a good son. He wasn’t a good son last night, but he’s going to redeem himself for that, and she’ll forgive him, because like he said, she’s his mother and she loves him and she  _ has _ to. 

“She already did!” Richie stands now, abruptly, and Eddie finds that he’s never seen Richie angry like  _ this. _ He decides immediately that he doesn’t like it at  _ all _ and that’s just more incentive to leave; watching Richie’s face twist into a scowl like that, watching the way his hands curl into fists at his sides. It’s Ben’s hand on his shoulder that brings him back down -- all the way down, in fact. He collapses onto the couch and buries his face in his hands and just stays like that, but his thoughts still bounce and tumble around,  _ ‘She already did! She already fucking  _ ** _did!_ ** _ ’ _

Eddie touches the bandaged and bruised side of his face. He can still smell the residual stench of the old perfume clinging to his skin and hair in places. He supposes he should be honest before he leaves. “That was my fault,” he says, only a little sheepish. “But I’m gonna go home and apologize, so it’ll be fine.”  _ It has to be fine. _

“Eddie, I really think you should stay.” Stan looks  _ ill, _ looks like he’s about to topple over off the loveseat where he was just perched so primly but is now hunched over, cradling his temples. 

“She won’t do it again.” He adamantly ignores the little nagging voice trying to worm its way into his head to insist  _ she might. _ Outside the window, the sun is high in the sky. 

He needs to go make things right again. 

* * *


	38. The closet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone else's turn to come out of the closet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember in like the 90s when no one gave a FUCK about kids, and parents could just get away with whatever? lol
> 
> Warnings for:  
-Vomiting  
-Internalized homophobia

* * *

January 1994

* * *

It takes a very, very long time for any of them to leave Mike’s house after Eddie takes off. Mike had pressed an old winter coat into his hands as he went (because if he couldn’t stop him the _ least _ he could do was make sure he’d be warm on the way home). And _ no _ he didn’t want anyone escorting him like some fucking princess, and _ no _ he didn’t want anyone to follow him, and he’d be _ pissed _ if they did, and he’d looked Richie right in the eye as he said it and he’d _ meant _ it. 

The silence stretches on endlessly and the morning is long gone before Richie finally finds it in himself to stand and walk out the front door, barely remembering to grab his own coat, and descends the steps of the front porch to just… just go home, he supposes.

His cheeks are red and raw from the bitter January air and his nose is running like a faucet by the time he walks in the front door, and his mom’s voice is calling him into the kitchen immediately. 

“I went to the hardware store to get you a new house key, and they made two on accident,” she says from where she’s poring over paperwork scattered across the island. “I thought maybe you could give it to Eddie?” She sounds like she isn’t even sure the words coming out of her mouth belong to her, even as she turns to look at him with clear eyes, and everything Richie’s been holding back comes crashing down at once. 

He turns and books it to the washroom, opening his mouth to vomit before he even gets the toilet seat up all the way. Some of it ends up on his hand. His stomach twists and clenches and aches.

_ Everything _ hurts in a strung-out, weighed-down way, tension stabbing at his shoulders and neck, head pounding, all of it aggravated by the motion of throwing up a second time. 

His mom is beside him in moments, dropping to her knees and putting one hand on his shoulder while the other retrieves a cloth from the nearby cabinet and she runs it under water to clean off his hand. “Hey, honey,” she says, petting at his hair and rubbing at his back soothingly. “Hey, it’s okay. What happened, hun?”

A pitiful sob bursts up out of him. He feels, inexplicably, the need to apologize, before he’s even _ said _ anything. Before he’s even made the _ decision _ to say anything.

And when he does, it comes out so frail and so desperate, so _ hurt, _ he can feel it reflect right back off her and make her heart ache for him. “Mom,” he cries, leaning into her touch. “Mom, I love him so much.”

Every part of him goes rigid once the words are out, once his mother has gone, _ “Oh,” _ in a voice that’s barely a whisper, but he barrels on anyway, because the damage is already done. He yanks his glasses off his face to scrub at the tears pouring down his cheeks and says, in a rush, “I _ love _ him, and I have for _ so long, _ and I just want to _ protect _ him, mom. I just want to take care of him. I don’t want him to get _ hurt.” W_hen his voice breaks she wraps him up in a _ proper _ hug, and it finally spills out, “I’m so sorry.” _ I’m sorry I’m not the son you wanted. I’m sorry I won’t have the ideal life you want for me. I’m sorry I’m gay. I’m sorry I had to fall in love with my best friend, who will probably never love me back, and that you’ll have to deal with the fallout. _

Her hands cradle his face and he’s forced to look into warm brown eyes, and she’s _ smiling _ at him -- _ smiling, _ of all things, although it looks _ terribly _ sad behind the facade. “Richie, you’re my son,” she says, so soft it _ hurts. _ “You’re my baby. You’ll always be my baby. I’ll never be a perfect parent, but I will always, _ always _ love you, no matter what.”

There’s a veritable_ tidal wave _ of relief as the tension in his body washes away and fresh tears streak down his face. He sobs against her shoulder, “I love you, mom. I’m sorry. I love you.”

“You have nothing to apologize for. You’re perfect the way you are,” his mom whispers, pressing kisses to his temple and rubbing his back until he’s _ melting _ into her, and it’s only then -- after all his years on this planet, all these years he’s been her son -- that he _ sees _ it. 

The way he sees it in Leroy Hanlon, sometimes. The way he used to see it in Bill’s mom before he actually had any clue what he was looking at. The way it used to glow around Stan and Mrs. Uris when their mothers would meet up for coffee dates and let the boys horse around in the yard all morning. When the contrast of their personalities was at its worst and its best: when Richie would get Stan muddy until he screamed, and Stan would sit so still by the bird feeders that Richie would turn into a fidgeting, writhing mess just _ looking _ at him.

The way he’s seen it, albeit much stronger than this, in all the Losers and never thought twice about it, not until it _ clicks _ and he’s _ sure. _

It’s a little bit gold. It’s a little bit… _ not. _ It’s there and it isn’t. If he focuses too hard it goes away, like when there are spots in your vision and you just can’t follow them.

But just that little flicker of molten gold from his mother while she wipes at his tears makes his breath catch in his throat, because there’s no way. 

_ (He’d thought, for so long, he was only imagining these things) _

There’s no _ way _ it’s just a coincidence and no fucking _ way _ he only imagines this around… around _ their _parents. Or, grandparents, in Mike’s case.

There’s a question he never thought to ask before: did the Turtle choose them at random, or were they doomed from the start?

Because if their parents have the shine, even just the _ tiny bit _ that they do possess, then none of this was an accident.

  
  
  


“I need to talk to you about Eddie,” Richie says to her later, when he’s calmer and she’s back at the kitchen island flipping through the usual stack of files from the office. 

She sets everything down immediately and turns to face him, folding her hands over her lap. She’s got that business look about her. That _ lawyer _ look she gets when she’s absorbed in her work. Richie knows she doesn’t mean to look at him that way, but it’s unsettling. It makes him think he should have prepared a real case before interrupting her.

“About… _ you _ and Eddie?” she asks, tentatively, like she’s testing the idea out herself. 

Richie _ wishes _ that were it. “No.” He shakes his head and plants himself on the stool beside hers. “About Eddie and his mom.”

Her face hardens, then, and Richie thinks about how he _ really _ wouldn’t want to be up against her in a courtroom. “What about them?”

“She--” Richie has to stop. Take a few deep breaths. He tries not to conjure up an image of Eddie’s face, streaked with blood and tears, or the feeling of gut-wrenching dejection that had permeated the space around him no matter how hard he tried to hide it. Or the _ fear. _ The fear had been so much worse. Had been _ palpable. _ Had made Richie _ nauseated. _ “She hit him. Like-- _ hit _ him, hit him. She smashed a… a fucking… _ perfume bottle _ on his _ face,” _ he manages to choke out between rapid breaths. His throat feels like it’s closing and he has to put a conscious effort into calming himself down before he ends up puking again. “It was awful, mom. It was awful, and he just pretended that…” A tear slips down his cheek anyway and it’s the only warning he gets before he’s sobbing again, pulling his glasses off entirely to scrub at his eyes. “I just… I don’t want him to get hurt. She’s never done that before, but-- but now she _ has, _ and what if she does it again?”

His mom wraps him up in a hug again. He can feel the heat of her anger enveloping him just the same as he can feel her pity and her _ love, _ like a balm. “I know, Richie. I understand.”

“I don’t want him to have to live with her anymore. She’s _ bad _ for him. She _ hurt _ him.”

“I don’t want him to live with her, either. I’ve never liked that woman. I certainly like her even _ less, _ now.” Her hand smooths his hair back from his forehead and she stares up at him with her eyes blazing. “I’ll be honest, Richie. I’m _ surprised _ this is the first time she’s hit him. There’s something _ wrong _ with her.”

“I _ know.” _ Richie swipes more tears off his cheeks and tries to calm his breathing again. “I _ hate _ her.”

“None of this leaves this room. I don’t need her hearing that I’ve been insulting her behind her back.”

“Everyone insults her behind her back, let’s be real.”

“Watch it.” She pinches his arm lightly. “If Eddie wants to leave her sooner rather than later, I’ll see what I can do. I know you’ll all be gone off to college in a few months, anyway, but it doesn’t hurt to ask if he wants to get out of there _ now.” _

And Richie -- God, Richie couldn’t be more elated. Sonia always seems to make Eddie _ miserable. _ He’s like a _ ghost _ in her presence. Not to mention, Richie is fucking _ sick to death _ of her trying to stop Eddie from hanging out with him. “Hell yeah!” he shouts, probably louder than necessary.

“Only if he wants, Richie. A parent hitting their child one time is _ barely _ grounds for an investigation, let alone for removing that child from their home, especially when he’s so close to turning eighteen. We’d need his full cooperation, and then there’s the issue of him moving in with a new legal guardian, and uprooting his life _ here _\-- I don’t recall Sonia having any family in town.” She’s still muttering to herself as she turns to dig her notebook out of the pile of papers she’s been sorting through, but Richie’s not listening, because he’s too busy imagining a life where Eddie isn’t miserable eighty percent of the time, and where he doesn’t get mad at Richie for getting him in trouble with his mom, and he doesn’t have to take fake medicine all the time or pretend he’s allergic to half the world.

  
  


*

  
  


Eddie’s_ fine _ the next morning. Walks up to Richie’s house in the deep snow, adjusting his scarf; perfectly content, it would seem. Not counting the bruising and cuts on his face, he _ seems _ altogether fine, and he’s beaming as he meets up with them in the driveway and says, “I told you it was okay!”

“Is it, now?” Mike, having arrived only seconds before, asks too sincerely. Richie can sense the nagging doubt as he surveys Eddie balancing on his toes. “You made up?”

Eddie nods. Mike frowns. Richie watches it all with a pit where his heart should be -- it’s been a rough couple of days. “Yeah! She said she overreacted and she’d never, ever do that again, and she cried, but not because of anything I did. Because she felt bad, she said. And she made me hot chocolate and let me pick a movie to watch.”

Richie knows this is simply unheard of in the Kaspbrak household, so he can understand Eddie’s excitement about it, but he’s also thinking, _ y’know, _ she fucking hit him, didn’t she? Does a cup of hot chocolate really make that okay? Is that how this works, now? 

_ Bullshit. _

“And she said we’ll talk about the college thing, and she’ll see what she can do.”

“Eddie,” Richie says, and Eddie’s mouth snaps shut as he registers his solemn tone. “Listen. I talked to my mom. You don’t have to keep living there. Not if you don’t want to.”

“What…” Eddie looks like a deer caught in headlights. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, she _ hit _ you, Eds. Who knows what else she could do. I just… I don’t trust her, okay?”

“Richie,” Mike tries to interrupt, watching the way Eddie starts shaking, eyes unblinking. 

“My mom’s a fucking _ lawyer,” _ Richie barrels on anyway. “She can pretty much snap her fingers and get you out of there. _ Especially _ if something else happens. But I want you out of there before something else _ can _ happen.”

Eddie shakes his head violently. His face pinches, hands clenching into fists. “Why would I want to leave?”

Mike and Richie look at each other again, and Richie can hear Mike telling him not to get Eddie all worked up -- _ ‘He’s been through enough this week.’ _

“I wouldn’t-- I wouldn’t just _ leave _ her, Richie. She’s my _ mom. _ I can’t just _ do that _ to her.”

“Well--” Richie knows he shouldn’t let his emotions get the better of him, but he can’t help it, and he’s so stressed and tired and this is the only good thing he could _ do _ with this situation and he’s fucking it up _ completely. _ “She can’t just fucking _ hit _ you when she feels like it!”

“I’m not _ leaving! _ We made up and I’m _ fine _ and I--” Eddie makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat and drags a gloved hand across his cheek, and now Richie feels like a _ jerk _ for upsetting him. “She’s my _ mom _ and I love her and I’m not just going to _ leave _ because she messed up.”

Richie throws his hands up in surrender. “I’m sorry,” he says, physically taking a step back. “I’m sorry, Eds, okay? I’m just… I’m just _ mad _ at her. Okay? I don’t like to see you get hurt.” And maybe that’s saying too much, maybe it’s too obvious of him, but Eddie doesn’t react, except to turn away and wipe his face dry again. Mike’s hand on his shoulder helps ease some of the tension out of Richie’s body. “I’m not going to make you do anything, alright? I just want you to know, if you ever need something, my mom is willing to help you out.”

Eddie sighs, shoulders sagging. “I’m sorry I yelled. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I know you didn’t mean it like that.” He closes the distance between them and throws his arms around Richie’s waist. 

Eddie seems content to move on, then. 

Richie isn’t. Not knowing the volatile environment Eddie is living in. Not after seeing him bloody and crying because of something his own _ mother _ did. That’s not okay. There’s no fucking way that’s okay. 

He knows what this world is like. People hit their kids all the time. They teach them discipline like that. Parents have done much worse than what happened to Eddie without repercussions. That’s life. What the fuck should Richie know about it? He’s still technically a kid himself. But his parents would _ never. _ He doesn’t know how he’d ever trust them again if they hurt him bad enough to make him bleed and did it on _ purpose. _

As _ punishment. _

But Eddie’s just… so fucking elated at the idea that his mom is going to support his decision to attend university, and that she still loves him “even after all that”, whatever the fuck that means, and that hurting him was just an error in judgment.

An error in fucking judgment.

Richie’s going to make a _ real big _ error in judgment if she ever lays a hand on Eddie again.

Eddie’s fine with letting bygones be bygones, or whatever it is he says airily when Bill asks about it as he joins them in Mike’s truck, but Richie doesn’t want to let it go. He wants to take Eddie out of that house, even if he doesn’t know everything that happens behind closed doors. He knows _ enough, _ he thinks, to warrant stealing his friend away in the night and refusing to return him to someone who had the fucking _ audacity _ to hurt him.

He’s worried it’s going to consume him, because it _ starts _ to, and Bev is constantly talking him down when he dwells on it too long, and she’s trying to stop him, all the fucking time, from marching up to Eddie and just saying, _ “Hey, your mom is a fucking cunt. It isn’t okay that she hurt you. You should run away.” _

Because _ ‘that’s only going to make things worse,’ _ Bev keeps telling him. _ ‘That isn’t what he wants to hear.’ _

Or, _ ‘He has to figure this out on his own. We need to _ help _ him figure it out.’ _

Or, Richie’s favourite: _ ‘Saying stuff like that will just make him defensive, and once he gets defensive, he’s going to talk _ ** _himself _ ** _ into believing that it was okay for her to do that.’ _

Bev’s _ trying, _ just as much as he is, and he trusts her judgment and shares in her frustrations.

He thinks to confront Sonia himself. Make it clear how much her hatred is reciprocated, and how he has faced things much scarier than _ her _ in his life. How if she does _ anything else _ even _ remotely _ close to hurting Eddie in the few months left before Richie can finally drag him out of this damned town (even if it fucking kills him), he’s not going to show her any more mercy than he showed _ It. _

He doesn’t even need Bev to tell him what an awful fucking idea that is, and how all it would do is get Eddie in trouble.

Here’s the thing, is that _ objectively, _ it _ could _ be worse. And if it was worse there would be greater reason for them to get their asses in gear. But things are _ good, _ Eddie keeps saying. _ Better _ than good. His mom is supporting his decision to attend post-secondary somewhere that isn’t Derry, and she’s been _ so nice, _ he says, and she never hit him before that and hasn’t since, and even Bev can’t figure out a good excuse to take him out of that house, no matter how badly she wants to. She tries to trick Eddie into giving her reasons but she just gets answers like, _ ‘We had pizza for dinner today. Can you believe that? _ ** _Pizza,_ ** _ and she didn’t even say any of it was bad for me or I was allergic to it, she just gave me the box and told me to eat as much as I want, can you _ ** _believe_ ** _ that? I ate so much I puked!’_

Eddie’s _ happy. _ Weirdly fucking happy. Sure, Richie has a million and one problems with his mother, and would move Eddie in with him in a heartbeat if Eddie wasn’t still seventeen and that wouldn’t get his parents charged with abduction of a minor or something (which is totally something he realized on his own and was not Bev being a voice of reason). But they’ve only got a few months until graduation, and then they’re _ out of here. _

They can leave Derry in the dust and Richie can take Eddie to Portland and say, _ “Listen, I don’t like the way your mom treated you. I think you deserve better than that. I _ ** _know_ ** _ you deserve better than that.” _

He can say, _ “She’s kind of a bitch, and she’s way too controlling, and she _ ** _hit you, _ ** _ which isn’t okay even if it _ ** _was_ ** _ only once, and she always tells you not to do stuff, and tries to stop you from spending time with us, and she lied to you about your meds for your whole life, and you had to _ ** _hide_ ** _ your job and your extracurriculars from her. That’s all so fucked up. You know that’s fucked up, right?” _

And Eddie, because this is Richie’s fantasy world where Eddie isn’t going to argue with him about this the way real Eddie (stubborn shithead that he is) will, is going to say, _ “You’re right. My mom’s a bitch and I hate her. You guys are my family, now.” _

Which is going to be, like, the triumph of the _ century. _

Except then Eddie gets sick.

* * *


	39. The not-placebos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie's sick for real this time. Who would have thought that maybe his mom wasn't lying about his medicine all along?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well you know the drill guys. As always, brace yourself for some fucked up and heavy content, and Sonia's ongoing abuse.
> 
> Specific warnings here are for:  
-drowning (or attempted drowning)  
-illness  
-nausea/mentions of vomiting  
-Sonia pushing some boundaries, but for once doing it with semi-reasonable intent (i.e. undressing Eddie to try to reduce his fever)  
-just some bigtime sads :(  
-nightmares  
-not-quite-nightmares  
-that fucking clown bitch

* * *

April 1994

* * *

Eddie’s forced to quit his job.

Not because his mother found out. God -- Maturin? -- willing, she won’t ever know he defied her outright like that, or for so long.

That makes it somehow worse, however, when he finally does it, because it’s a decision he’s making on his own. He’s too sick and he’s not getting better. He can barely attend his classes, let alone work in a garage, in his condition.

(Mr. McKinley is understandably upset, but not nearly as much as Eddie.)

He already quit the track team back in November, after he decided it wasn’t worth trying to keep it hidden from his mom, and he needed the money from work more than the extracurricular credit from track and field.

He understands now that the medications his mother gave him all his life were _ important, _ and that going so long without taking _ any _ of them has repercussions, the likes of which he couldn’t have predicted. He finds himself bedridden more often than not. One Loser or another comes by to drop off work on days he can’t make it to school. 

They’re worried. He doesn’t need the shine to know that. 

He wants to tell them not to worry, but he isn’t sure, himself, what comes next. This is his own fault for doing something so _ stupid. _

He explained to them, once he and his mother realized what was happening, that he’d stopped taking his medication altogether, just to prove to himself he didn’t need _ any _ of it, _ ever. _ That he was _ wrong, _ obviously, and now he’s suffering the consequences.

“But it’s fake,” Bill had said, confusion shining in his eyes. “It’s all just placebos, isn’t it? Just sugar pills? You aren’t sick, Eddie, you said so yourself.”

“I was wrong. People get things wrong sometimes.” People _ lie _ sometimes, too, just as Greta Keene had done to him, had made him question _ everything, _ had made him defy his own mother, who was only trying to take care of him.

So the pills are _ real. _ Something is _ genuinely _ wrong with him, and he let it go unchecked so long his body just doesn’t know how to help itself anymore. 

Now, when his mother pours them into his shaking hands, he swallows them down obediently and wishes this would just be over -- that they’d just _ work _ again already.

“Oh, my Eddie-bear,” she says, soft, brushing his sweat-soaked hair out of his face. “You went so long without taking them. You made yourself _ so sick. _ It’ll be awhile before you’re feeling better again.”

“I’m sorry,” he tells her, as she takes the glass of water back and helps him lean against the pillows again. He’s said this a thousand times; he’ll likely say it a thousand more. This is all his own fault, after all. He should have done as he was told and taken his medication like he was supposed to. Like a good son. 

“It’s alright. I’m here to take care of you for as long as you need.”

At some point over the course of the weekend, he takes a turn for the worse. Part of him is grateful that his mother isn’t insisting on taking him to the emergency room, because he doesn’t have the strength to resist her. But still something tells him that’s where he _ should _ go -- where he _ would _ go, if he weren’t so afraid. They could help him.

His mom can help him, too.

He's been to a doctor who told his mom what the effects of going so long without his medicine would be, and how to handle them, and who prescribed him all these new things to deal with all these problems he triggered by not taking his stupid pills when he should have. He barely remembers the visit -- he was completely out of it by then, and when he came to he was back at home, in bed, and the medicine cabinet had been restocked to more closely resemble an entire pharmacy.

He doesn't even know where to _begin_ with the new medications, but his mom has been sorting them for him and he's too exhausted to argue.

He can’t get warm. He thought he was _ too warm _ \-- skin on fire, melting into the sheets -- but now he realizes he was _ wrong, _ so wrong, and he’s never been so cold in his life. Not even trapped in the sewers under Derry, not even taking baths in a tub full of ice, not even when he’s been his _ most _ terrified, because of Bowers or Criss or a clown with a painted-on smile that wanted nothing more than to see him dead.

He’s struggling to articulate any of it, of course. His tongue feels swollen up, much like the rest of him does, and he’s having trouble making out his own voice over the ringing in his ears. 

It’s terribly lonely when he’s the only one inside his head, and moreover, it’s utterly terrifying. For five years he’s had the constant presence of his friends, the comfort of their voices, their thoughts and feelings, in the bridges connecting their minds. 

And now there’s nothing. Maybe because he’s so sick. Maybe because of the medicine he has to take now, to undo the damage he did. 

It’s infinitely worse than the brief stint in the hospital after Vic Criss cut up his arm and left him needing stitches, because _ this _ isolation feels endless, and truly, he _ doesn’t _ know when it will end.

_ If _ it will end.

It’s like a piece of him -- like _ six _ pieces of him -- have been ripped out and left gaping and empty, and now he’s all alone while he swims through his fever-haze and wonders what’s going to happen. How bad did he hurt himself? How bad did he screw himself over by defying his mom, who only ever tried to _ help _ him?

He wishes more than anything he could hear Richie, or feel the presence of his thoughts, so it stops feeling like he’s been torn in half. He wants to hear the annoying music in the middle of the night and the bad jokes he’s trying to work on. He wants to listen to him croon and giggle in his Southern Belle Voice while he teases Eddie until he’s blushing, and he wants to beg Richie to shut up (to no avail) as he bleats and blathers in his ridiculous Toodles the English Butler Voice. He wants Richie to talk to him until he falls asleep listening, lulled by his presence and the sound of his many Voices.

The loneliness is going to kill him before any sickness does.

Maybe, if he’s lucky, Richie will come to see him tonight. He thinks he would feel better if Richie were here. Sometimes, if he can be sneaky about it, he’ll scale the side of the house, to sit on the low roof just outside Eddie’s window. So they can talk. So they can _ see _ each other.

He’ll hide there while they whisper through the screen, and if they hear Eddie’s mom coming, Richie can duck down and hide, or slip down off the roof to hide in the overgrown yard, while Eddie pretends he’s just getting some fresh air.

He finds that when he’s this desperate and lonely and exhausted and _ scared, _ the threat of one or both of them getting in trouble for this doesn’t bother him so much. He’ll take it, he thinks. He’ll take whatever punishment befalls him if it means he can pull his desk chair up to the window and listen to Richie read or sing or tell him about his day. If it means he can pop the screen out of place and reach through to let Richie hold his hand while he dozes. Being sick -- being for-real _ sick _ \-- is far less terrifying that way.

Sometimes, if he’s sure his mother is dead asleep, snoring down the hall, he’ll let Richie come inside, and then he can fall asleep with Richie holding him on his bed, listening to him talk, and those are the nights he feels most like himself. 

This, right now, is the _ least _ like himself he’s ever felt.

His mom puts the cloth to his forehead again, and this time, finally, a hiss escapes between his teeth. It’s cold. _ Too cold. _ It sends a shock of pain across his head, dipping down behind his eyes and around his ears, stabbing into his temples. When he opens his eyes they _ burn, _ from the headache, the light, the colours around him. Everything is distorted around him anyway, even the silhouette of his mother fussing over him.

“I’m so sorry, Eddie,” she’s telling him in a voice that sounds like it’s coming from underwater. He’s only been catching snippets, for the most part. He’s filling in blanks. “...too much.”

_ “Too cold,” _ he wants to correct, but he doesn’t remember how to speak at all. His skin itches where it isn’t freezing, from the hives that broke out across his body this morning. Breathing is difficult, and no matter how many times she holds the inhaler to his lips and presses the trigger, it isn’t getting better. There’s not a single part of his body that isn’t experiencing some sort of discomfort, and she’s only making it worse without realizing.

Some time must pass, because the damp cold is gone from his forehead and he’s being sat up, hands on his back and shoulders lifting him from the mattress.

“Mommy,” he thinks he manages to croak, trying to pry open his heavy eyelids as he grasps blindly for her. 

Freezing fingers touch his. “Mommy’s… Eddie, don’t you…”

When she makes him walk he cries. He doesn’t mean to, but everything hurts and he’s so _ dizzy _ and trying to walk down the hall is making everything so much worse. Nausea starts creeping into his gut.

“...take care of my baby, don’t worry.” They stop, his bare feet on cold linoleum, and she starts taking his clothes off for him, trying to keep him upright at the same time. _ Now _ he opens his eyes, blinking until he can get the bathtub into focus. A jolt of anxiety almost sends the meagre contents of his stomach into a riot.

But it’s only water. It’s only filled with water. No ice this time. He doesn’t want to be cold again.

A sob jumps out of him at the thought, tears dripping off his cheeks as his mom unbuttons his pyjama shirt, letting it drop to the floor.

It’s only water, except the water _ is _ cold. He’s not all _ with it, _ but he knows the moment she tries to lower him into the water his body bucks up on instinct, trying to escape the chill, and his eyes shoot open again.

The fever crawls up the sides of his face, a horrible prickling sensation trapped under his skin, trying to burn him down to ashes and freeze him to his bones. His tears are syrupy, making his eyelids stick together when he blinks; when he turns to his mom as she forces him to sit in the tub and says, _ “Please.” _

He doesn’t want to be cold and he doesn’t want to be sick; doesn’t want to hurt or burn up with fever or itch with hives or puke his guts out. He wants to _ sleep, _ he just wants to sleep until he feels better, or until Richie comes to his window and they sit side-by-side, separated by the sill, and maybe Richie will hold his hand while they talk again. Maybe Richie will play with his hair again. Maybe he’ll climb right in the window and he’ll lie down with his chin resting against the top of Eddie’s head, arms tucked around his torso, and hold him like that until he’s alright.

He’s gone lax under the freezing water without noticing, too caught up in his head, which is a much better place to be than his body right now. He’s not aware of the lukewarm water that his feverish body is registering as _ cold, _ of his mother scrubbing him down with soap and a washcloth, of her trying to get his face and hair wet to bring the fever down.

He’s thinking, wouldn’t it be nice if his friends were with him? Wouldn’t it be nice if he were with Richie, especially? That would be much better -- would be _ ideal _ \-- though he knows his mom would never approve. 

He’s unaware, too, of the way his heavy tongue laments, “I want Richie,” and the way his mother’s hand freezes halfway to pouring a cup of water over his hair. Until, of course, he opens his eyes and remembers where he is, and wonders how he got here.

It’s not his mom above him but a leper, or otherwise his imagination acting up. Her yellow eyes harden. Scabrous fingers slide through his hair, coming to rest at the crown of his head.

She doesn’t say anything. The _ mirage _ he must have conjured up is silent. Eddie’s head slips beneath the surface of the water, just like that, and he doesn’t have the sense to fight back at first. It’s only when he’s run out of air and some survival instinct barely prevents him from sucking in a lungful of water that panic overrides his fever-haze.

He’s kicking against the sides of the tub, water splashing everywhere, when he’s lifted out by cold hands under his arms and given a chance to breathe again. “No, you don’t,” his mother-- the leper-- _ It _ growls over the sounds of the bath water settling and his own heaving.

His head goes under again.

  
  
  


He wakes up in his room, dressed in his pyjamas, a washcloth draped across his forehead, and realizes that must have been a dream. He sucks in a breath and tries to calm his racing heart -- it’s aggravating his headache -- and pushes his damp hair away from his eyes. 

The guilt is so potent it’s nauseating. He can’t believe he’d ever dare even _ think _ about his mother trying to drown him, let alone allow his brain to conjure up such a vivid nightmare. Or, maybe the nausea is coming from _ fear, _ because it felt so real, but it couldn’t have been. It couldn’t have. 

She isn’t a perfect parent, and he can’t say he _ enjoys _ her methods of problem-solving with him, but she’d never try to _ drown _ him, would she? Not over something so trivial, right?

He tells himself that _ of course _ it wasn’t real, _ of course _ it was only his imagination, only a nightmare, only something the fever conjured up, but when she comes into his room with his medication in hand, he shies away from her touch on instinct, and his chest seizes under the force of his fear until he needs the inhaler again.

Richie _ does _ come, once the moon is hanging well overhead, bright enough to obscure the stars, and Sonia is _ definitely _ sound asleep in her room down the hall, snoring raucously. It’s a _ bad _ idea. It’s _ always _ a bad idea. He’s running the risk of getting in trouble _ like that _ again -- of being kept apart from his friends, who he needs more than ever now. Just for the sake of some alone time with Richie.

They know what will happen if Sonia catches them, but Richie always comes anyway, because… because Eddie _ wants _ him to.

And he’s _ allowed _ to want that, he’s decided, even if his mother doesn’t approve.

He doesn’t wait for Eddie to open the window for him, clawing at it until he gets a good grip and can heave it open, even while Eddie is trying to stumble across the room to help him. The concern is so strong Eddie can _ taste _it.

“Jesus Christ, Eds, what’s going on? Are you alright?” Richie’s already asking before he’s even got the window open all the way, and then he’s telling Eddie to stay the hell in bed, “Seriously, you look like _ death, _ what the fuck are you doing trying to stand up?”

He doesn’t argue -- sinks back under the covers and lets his head hit the pillow and then the mattress is dipping as Richie climbs right in beside him. He’s as liberal with the contact as always and Eddie couldn’t be more grateful, because his lungs are weak and his limbs are weary and he’s _afraid,_ but Richie makes him a little _less_ afraid. “I had a bad dream,” he explains. “That’s all.” He knows Richie can’t quite hear anything he’s thinking, and he probably can't grasp whatever he’s feeling. Richie told him so. But he came to check on him, and he's paying enough attention to have figured out Eddie is having a particularly rough go of it, even if he can't _feel_ it, and the idea of that sends a tickle of delight through Eddie. 

Knowing that he _ cares _ that much.

It probably isn’t fair of him, to expect Richie to care about him as much as _ he _ cares about Richie, but it’s nice to imagine. 

Even in the semi-darkness, he can make out the faint lines of scarring on Richie’s temple and high on his cheekbone, hidden partially behind his glasses until he takes them off to set them on the pillow. He wants to reach out to touch it but his arms feel too heavy. 

The reminder always brings about a sick jolt of fear.

He’d give anything to keep Richie safe. He’d die to protect him. He knows he would, without hesitation. 

It’s hard not to wish that feeling was reciprocated.

“You wanna talk about it?”

In truth, he doesn’t, even with Richie’s arms curling around him and his chin resting against the crown of his head so that all Eddie can see or feel or hear is _ Richie, _ because he doesn’t want to betray the tiny threads of negativity and fear that bind him to his mother and conjure up dreams like _ that. _ It’s best to ignore them. It’s best to focus on the positive. 

She takes care of him. She _ loves _ him.

It’s _ disgraceful _ for his imagination to _ create _ things like that.

He doesn’t have to lie or make excuses, because it’s the truth when he says, "I just want to sleep."

“...’Kay,” Richie mumbles into his hair, one hand pressing between his shoulder blades. “I’ll stay as long as I can, alright?”

Eddie nods and hums, but even without the shine he can sense Richie’s discomfort. Or maybe it’s just outright pain, like razor blades slipping through his skin and digging deeper, into his chest. It isn’t intentional, it’s just that Richie feels loudly and boldly, so that it’s impossible not to pick up on it. He struggles to watch people suffer, and Eddie thinks _ he _must be the one Richie is struggling to watch. The tension of it sits heavy in the way he holds himself, and the way he holds Eddie. 

He should apologize, maybe, or assure him that he’ll be just fine, except…

Except he can’t guarantee that. 

None of them know what comes after this, and the uncertainty follows him through his days like a shadow now. The other Losers haven’t quite caught on to the fact that he _ knows _ it weighs on them just as much as it does on him. He can see it in their eyes, in the way they move around him. He can feel it in the air around them like electricity. In the way Richie clings to him like he can hold the life inside of him if he tries hard enough.

* 

Nothing on this fucking planet is going to get Eddie to set foot back in the fucking Neibolt House. He’s had his fill of horror and of danger and he’s _ done with it. _

So why the fuck is he _ here? _

There’s a nebulous brown haze on three sides of him and a blackened corridor stretching ahead, but he _ knows _ it’s where he is. He can smell it. Rot, putrid and heavy, and whatever fear and hatred smell like. 

_ Another _ nightmare.

When he sees It, he realizes too late that he’s stuck in place, with nothing behind him but smog and nothing ahead but death incarnate -- two sparks in the endless dark, sweeping closer, like a shot, and then the white face materializing all at once around them. A painted smile.

Wild and sharp and _ hungry. _

A scream builds in his throat but he can’t open his mouth to let it out -- it swells there until it’s suffocating, and when he tries to suck in a breath there’s the unpleasant, harsh scent of _ Its _breath burning his nose.

“Oh, Eddie-bear,” It croons, low, too close, and he can’t _ breathe. _ Hands are on his cheeks, freezing and slimy, sharp nails tracing the space just below his eyes. “Just because you Shine doesn’t mean you’re special.”

Eddie makes a high noise, a long whistling note like a precursor to the scream that wants _ so badly _ to escape. The claws dig in and blood wells up under his eyes and runs down his cheeks like tears.

“You’re still just as human as everyone else.” Its eyes are clear and blue now, bright as they bore into his, those hundreds of teeth bare centimetres from sinking into the flesh of his face. The grin pops wider and in a blink the eyes are hideous amber again. “You’re just mortal. You’re just _ weak. _ You’re just _ afraid.” _ It’s manic, deranged, giggling high and horrible, and he can feel the thrum of excitement through Its strange body. Can feel the _ giddiness _ as It inhales the cloying fear-scent rolling off of him and says in his mother’s voice, “You’re just too easy to kill. Fragile little thing. _ Too easy, Eddie-bear. _ So _ scared.” _

_ Of course he’s scared of _ ** _course_ ** _ he is he can’t scream he can’t cry he can’t run and Its breath reeks of flesh-rot and he’s _ ** _trapped_ ** _ and the _ ** _lights--_ **

_ The lights are shining behind Its teeth and _just because you Shine doesn’t mean you’re special _It’s_ **_laughing_**_ as Its jaw cracks open wide, blue-yellow-blue-black eyes blazing--_

All the strength floods back into his body at once, with _ force _ that makes him dizzy, and his own mouth opens on a scream so loud he can hear glass shattering around him as the windows in the house blow out.

  
  


When he wakes up a second time, he’s alone and the sun is already up. There’s the echo of that dying scream rattling through the corners of his room (rattling the window) and sweat soaking the sheets beneath him.

He _ knows _ Richie being here wasn’t just part of his dream because there’s an imprint on the pillow beside his head and a lingering warmth on the mattress, and if nothing else, _ that _ comforts him. 

Still, the door bursts open and his heart rate lifts all over again as his mother descends, grasping at him and playing at comfort, pressing his inhaler into his shaking hands, but it doesn’t work the same way as when Richie tries to help, and there’s an ache under his eyes where Its claws drew blood.

* * *


	40. The track meet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s not like Sonia would call up the Tozier residence to tell poor old Richie the bad news. He’d just have to make the mistake of flipping to the obits when he’s reading the Saturday morning funnies in the paper. Have his entire world fucking shatter around him like that, instead of the dramatic way all those sad romance movies he’s been watching do it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter:  
-mentions of vomiting (doesn't actually happen)  
-mentions/discussions of death  
-mentions of cancer & illness  
-a lot of anxiety  
-discussion of That Fucking Clown

* * *

May 1994

* * *

Bill’s passed out in the hammock again. He’s wearing a dumb shower cap, like spiders in his hair is really his biggest concern when he’s snoring away with his damn mouth hanging open like that.

Richie came down here fully intending to take a nap there himself, since the weather has turned and it’s always pleasantly warm in the clubhouse lately. He’s got his Walkman clipped to his belt, drowning out all his troubles with music loud enough to do some permanent damage to his eardrums. His assigned reading for school is clutched under his arm. Something to fall asleep reading.

Like he was actually going to be able to sleep anyway.

Richie lies down on the couch instead, and turns on the transistor TV they set up in the corner. Someone left the _ Back to the Future _ tape in last time they were down here, and it resumes halfway through the movie. 

He'd would be over at Eddie's right now if fucking _ Sonia _ wasn’t home. She’s probably fussing over him and refusing to give him a moment alone so Richie can sneak up there and pretend he isn’t worrying himself into knots over Eddie’s well-being.

He doesn’t want to come across as overbearing the way she is, because Eddie would hate that. But he can hardly be blamed for wanting to be exactly where Sonia is right now. He’d do anything to make Eddie feel better.

It’s almost understandable, but at least Richie _ tries _ to respect his requests for space and privacy, unlike _ some people. _

He pulls his headphones off with a heavy sigh and lets the Walkman fall to the floor beside the book he doesn’t want to read.

The clubhouse door creaks open a few minutes later, and Mike descends the ladder. He’s followed closely by Ben, who has his track uniform folded in his arms already.

The slight commotion doesn’t wake Bill, and Richie envies him that. He wants to sleep and forget about all his problems for a while. As it stands, he’s barely slept in weeks. It keeps earning him sympathetic looks from his friends, but what do _ they _ know? 

Well, more than he ever wanted them to, and probably enough to feel at least slightly sympathetic to his plight. 

He drags himself off the couch when they approach, making room for them and waving them off when they remind him he can stay and sit with them while they wait. He busies himself instead with rummaging through the absolute mess on and inside of the desk. No matter how hard Stan and Eddie try to keep things organized around here, it always devolves into chaos under the influence of the other Losers. 

And Eddie hasn’t exactly been… _ up to the task _ of helping Stan the last few weeks, so things have been neglected. He pauses in his search for a Sharpie to at least make an _ attempt _ at putting everything back in its place.

It’s just _ easier _ when things are neat and organized. For everyone. He stacks the loose papers in their designated drawer and rounds up all the stray pencils to set them in their space in the organizer. 

Mike and Ben are talking in hushed tones on the couch, conversation strictly between themselves.

Richie feels like he’s going to vibrate right out of his fucking skin and he’s not even sure _ why. _

He frantically, _ obsessively _ cleans and sorts and organizes the stupid mess they let accumulate on the desk. His hands shake and he has to stop himself and take deep breaths just like Eddie always does when he has his “asthma” attacks. 

It’s probably better not to think of Eddie, because that’s just making him worked up.

“Richie? Are you alright?” Mike asks, leaning over the back of the couch to watch him. 

He nods without even really processing the action. “I-- yeah,” he tells him, through the heavy feeling in his throat. “I just…” He gestures vaguely at the slightly-less-disastrous desk. “It’s… usually Eddie, uh-- Yeah, I’m good.”

Ben and Mike exchange a _ look. _ He can sense their contemplation easily enough. He can also sense the trepidation, because they don’t know what the fuck to say, because _ what the fuck is there to say? _

Eddie’s dad died of cancer thirteen years ago. Eddie’s _ sick _ and he doesn’t know what it is but his mom is cramming pills down his throat like they’re liable to perform miracles. 

Richie’s dumb fucking stupid _ stupid _ in love with him and even if he weren’t, Eddie is still one of his _ best friends _ and this would _ still _ be like a knife to the gut. Like someone sucking all the light out of his life. And he’s so so _ so _ sick of his mind running in the same circles about it and even _ more _ sick of his own catastrophizing. But _ what else is he supposed to do? _

They’re all teetering dangerously close to the edge of losing one of their own, and the impending cataclysm sits on the horizon like thick, towering storm clouds and _ taunts them. _ Richie can barely fucking sleep. He’s too busy trying to keep tabs on Eddie and what he’s doing and if he’s okay and if he’ll _ be okay. _

He’s too busy worrying himself into splintered little pieces and risking Sonia’s wrath just to sneak in a few extra moments of _ time _ with him because the reality that it’s _ limited _ has sunk its claws into his brain and won’t fucking let go.

So, no, he _ isn’t _ good. But neither are Mike and Ben, and neither is Bill, or Stan, or Bev. They’ve all said everything that needed to be said, even if some of it was never said aloud. There’s no room for reassurances here because they can all see each other’s thoughts well enough to recognize that it’s all meaningless.

And Richie doesn’t need anyone to watch him break apart under the pressure bearing down on his whole life, so he forces himself to take another deep, slow breath, and smile as convincingly as he can, and ask, “Say, Mr. Handsome, when are we due to be at the track meet you’re destined to win?” with a wink. And he _ doesn’t _ say that the only reason Ben’s destined to win is because his only _ real _ competition quit, and he’s too sick to leave his fucking house anyway, and it’s got them so fucking worried that Richie swears the anxiety is going to rot his bones.

Ben checks his wristwatch and deliberates for a moment. “I think we’ve got about an hour before we need to go. You can finish your movie, if you want.”

He gestures to the space on the couch beside him, but Richie’s already got the sharpie he was looking for and he’s approaching Bill as he uncaps it. “Oh, I’m alright. I’ve got plenty of entertainment right here.”

“Richie, at least use a washable marker,” Mike chastises as Richie examines the zits on Bill’s face to figure out which constellation might work best for their configuration.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Stan comes scurrying down the ladder while he thinks, and just as he’s leaning down to make his first line, the marker is plucked from between his fingers and Stan’s elbow is connecting with his ribs. “You’re a menace. Use a washable marker.”

“You’re the only soldier here brave enough to stop me,” Richie retorts with a wink.

“Oh, I would’ve just waited to help Bill get revenge. It’s more fun that way,” Mike says from the couch, an _ actual threat, _ and it makes Richie laugh so loud that Bill jerks awake and looks up at him in confusion.

“Wow. Now you wake up. Unbelievable. Hammock-hog.”

“It’s not _ your _ fucking hammock, Richie. This is a group-owned clubhouse. You’ve gotta learn to share.”

Richie swats at his shoulder and Bill swats back and for a second he feels _ normal. _

“Are we getting all festive and shit for this meet or what? You know, ‘Go, Tigers’ or whatever?”

“You don’t have to. It’s just a small thing.”

“‘Just a small thing’ my ass. It’s the first step to the regional competition. You’re gonna win this bitch, and next weekend you’ll go to Bangor, and soon you’re gonna be in the Olympics or some shit.”

“I’m not _ that _ good.” Ben’s ears turn red.

“Don’t sell yourself short. If anything, you could at least get a scholarship for it,” Stan adds. “I mean, you’re the--”

He doesn’t finish the thought, but they all know he was going to say _ “best in the school.” _ Which is simultaneously true and untrue. Richie doesn’t want to think about it.

“I already applied,” Ben says, and the little smile tugging at his lips tells them everything, and Richie’s heart sinks but he has to shove away the little indignant cry inside his mind that _ Eddie _ was supposed to get a scholarship for that.

“That’s awesome,” Bill says genuinely, sliding out of the hammock to stretch. He clears the small room in a few steps and claps Ben on the shoulder. “You should’ve told us before!”

Ben turns redder, somehow. “I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

Stan’s hand finds Richie’s wrist and squeezes.

  
  
  


They get to the school early enough to find a space for all of them to sit on the bleachers together. 

The air is threatening rain. Grey clouds puff up and roll together across the sky, and Richie can see the adults gathered near the track surveying the sky to assess their chances. The storm that’s coming is palpable in the cool breeze sweeping across the field and the thick, dull scent of rain it carries. 

But this _ has _ to happen this weekend, because they’re on a schedule, so they’ll just have to get on with it. Their problem for organizing this in Derry, instead of Haven or Old Town. Derry is notoriously stormy.

Almost like it’s fucking cursed or something.

People are rushed up into the stands and team members are rushed into positions on the track, starting right out the gate with the one hundred metre before most people have taken their seats, like they can beat the fucking storm boiling on the horizon. 

Stan notices them approaching first, and the movement catches Richie’s eye just as Stan’s thinking, _ ‘Oh, you have to be joking.’ _

But there’s no joke. Victor Criss is making his way up into the bleachers, Belch Huggins close on his heels and a few of their other friends trailing behind them.

Naturally, they file onto the bench directly behind the Losers, and Richie’s thinking, to himself and the others, _ ‘Maybe they won’t notice it’s us. Maybe they won’t do anything. We’re in public, after all. What can they do with all these people around?’ _

But he thinks it’d be all too easy to drive a fucking knife into his back from where Vic is sitting directly behind them, which is _ not _ comforting at all. Telepathy isn’t gonna do jack shit against a fucking _ knife. _

Why couldn’t the Turtle god grant them cooler, more useful powers, like telekinesis or laser eyes or invulnerability.

Laser eyes would be pretty fucking sweet. 

He tries not to move too much as he shoots Stan a nervous look. Everyone else is making a point of being subtle, too, as they glance at each other, and Mike tells them, _ ‘Maybe we should change seats.’ _

Victor Criss’s stupid bony knee collides sharply with the back of Stan’s head and sends a bolt of pain blossoming through Richie’s own skull. He hisses and claps a hand over the sore spot, whipping around to glare into Criss’s sharp, calculating eyes. 

Stan grabs at his shoulder before he can say anything.

_ ‘He doesn’t know you felt that,’ _ he insists. _ ‘Don’t start something. He’s dangerous.’ _

Criss is fucking _ laughing _ at them, and Belch starts up, too, then Moose, and Bill decides suddenly that Mike’s plan was fucking _ ideal. _

_ ‘Let’s just go. There are plenty of empty spots, anyway.’ _

_ ‘Are you alright?’ _ Ben asks anxiously from somewhere on the field, lost in the swarm of teenagers in multicoloured uniforms clustered by the fence. 

_ ‘Vic and his gang are here. It’s all good, though. No serious injuries. I don’t think he’s stupid enough to try and kill us in a crowd like this,’ _ Richie assures him, even though he’s not so sure. They hadn’t had any qualms about bashing his head in against the fucking pavement outside the garage last summer. That should have counted as a homicide attempt, but _ apparently _ no one actually had a clear view of what happened. Vic claimed Richie just tripped, and that Belch was just trying to help.

No one questioned the knife wound in Eddie’s arm or the state of Belch’s ugly mug, because no one in Derry ever bothers with that shit.

It’s easier to just move on and pretend nothing happened. Never mind if it’ll happen again because they let the sick fucks who perpetrated the whole thing go free. 

Richie’s mom had tried to insist they should move after that incident. Richie had to beg her to let them stay in Derry. 

He doesn’t know how the fuck Bev does it; being apart from them all the time. He doesn’t think he’d survive the ordeal. He’ll take his chances in Derry.

Eddie’s mom wanted to move, too. She can’t fucking afford it, but she kept saying if those nasty boys didn’t get in some trouble with the law she’d pack them up and move them to New York.

They’re both still here, and for that much, Richie is grateful.

“I don’t think he’s stupid at all,” Stan says out loud as they descend the steps to a new bench. 

Tension crackles down Richie’s spine, but he’s not sure it came from himself.

“He’s smarter than Bowers,” Bill offers, nodding solemnly. “That’s for fuckin’ sure.”

Ben is weaving his way through the throng of students towards them, but Bill waves him off. _ ‘We’re fine, Ben. You’re gonna miss your race.’ _

_ ‘Is someone hurt?’ _

_ ‘He just whacked Stan on the head. No damage done. Go make us proud, Handsome.’ _ Richie winks at him, even though Ben probably can’t see it from so far away, and he turns with a reluctant sigh to make his way back towards his coach.

There are a few long moments of silence. Ben and his opponents line up for their race. Thunder rumbles across the dark sky towards them.

A raindrop lands on Richie’s glasses.

“Do you think…” Stan starts quietly, gaze focused on a point somewhere in the distance. “Do you think he would kill us, if he got the chance?”

_ He’s smarter than Bowers. _

Bowers, who was a dunce at school _ and _ life. Who just took out his anger on the easiest available targets, or the ones his dad had brainwashed him into believing were the enemy. Who tried to kill them _ anyway, _ not because it was a _ smart _ move, but because he _ could _ and he was _ angry _ and because _ It _ got hold of him.

Just like -- and _ god, _ Richie doesn’t want to believe it’s true, but he already knows it is and there’s no point lying to make himself feel better -- just like It must have some power over Criss. Like It latched onto the nearest source of anger and hatred when the first one was taken away and started feeding off of it. Or, feeding _ into _ it.

Because, loathe though they are to admit it, the scars on their hands _ mean _ something. It isn’t an empty promise. It’s more like a death sentence.

It hasn’t died, and It _ won’t _ until they go back to finish the job. 

Richie wants to close his mouth the second he opens it, but he _ can’t. _ He’s lost control of his own voice, and something forces the words up out of him like vomit. “Would we be able to kill It while It sleeps?”

*

It’s like he’s missing a limb. Or like someone carved out a hollow place inside of him. His emotions are all muted for reasons he can’t even begin to understand.

He only gets the occasional, strained glimpses of Eddie through a stifling fog.

Eddie could-- 

_ He could-- _

_ and Richie wouldn’t even know. _

It’s not like Sonia would call up the Tozier residence to tell poor old Richie the bad news. He’d just have to make the mistake of flipping to the obits when he’s reading the Saturday morning funnies in the paper. Have his entire world fucking shatter around him like _ that, _ instead of the dramatic way all those sad romance movies he’s been watching do it. 

He doesn’t even bother reading the funnies anymore, just in case. That’s not the way he wants to remember it happening.

Richie Tozier isn’t religious. He’s been to church. He’s been to temple. He did his time in Sunday school before poor Miss Hendricks got fed up with his pottymouth and chronic inability to sit still and politely asked his mother not to bring him back. 

He doesn’t believe in any of those things in a meaningful way anymore. He also doesn’t quite believe in the supposed omnipotence of a Turtle and his cosmic pals. 

That doesn’t stop him from praying, even if he isn’t quite sure how to go about it. Sometimes he finds himself kneeling by his bed with his head resting on his folded hands, trying to talk to the thing that (allegedly) supports the pillars of their universe on its back or some shit, and he just recites whatever he needs to say like he’s writing a letter.

_ “Dear Mister Maturin, sir. Or, uh, or ma’am. Or, neither… of those things? Do gods have genders?” _

_ “Hey, Maturin, remember me? One of the poor fucks you gave accidental telepathy to? I have a favour to ask.” _

_ “Could you just… I dunno… beam me down a dream to tell me what’s wrong with Eds and, if you’re feeling _ real _ generous, maybe, _ I dunno ** _,_ ** _ how to fix him? Um, please. And thank you. Uh, sincerely, Richie?” _

_ “In the name of the, uh, Turtle? And the… yeah, never mind. This is stupid.” _

_ “Can gods cure cancer?” _

_ “Do you _ count _ as a god?” _

He’s only ever met with silence, anyway, and he doesn’t understand how the religious schmucks of the world manage to keep such steady faith in silent all-powerful beings. The least they could do is drop a little note reminding everyone they’re there once in a while, right? Answer a prayer or two, perform a few miracles. Keep people invested.

Ironically, he can’t seem to stop, either.

  
  
*

He’s watching his mom work in front of the TV. 

Every time she turns towards him, he looks away, but he’s ignoring their movie and watching _ her, _ waiting for that flicker of gold he knows will come. It’s always there, hovering just under the surface.

“Mom, did you know Frank Kaspbrak?” he asks without meaning to. The question has been sitting on his tongue for _ weeks _ and he’s finally lost his handle on it.

She stops. Sets her pen down slowly. “I did,” she says before turning to face him, a mournful smile on her face. “He was one of my best friends growing up.”

“He was?”

“Yeah, him and a few others. It’s still hard to believe he’s…”

She doesn’t finish her sentence, but Richie knows what she means.

He’s been distracted, though, and he follows that new path that his brain has latched onto. “Who were the others? Your other friends?”

“Oh, well they were…” She thinks on it for a second, sifting back through the memories. “Well, I think they were actually your friends’ parents, funnily enough. Andrea, of course. Sharon Denbrough, Joseph Hanscom -- that would be that boy Ben’s dad, of course, you’ve never met him. He passed away as well. Elfrida and William, too. I… I suppose I didn’t realize how many of them passed so early.”

Richie recognizes the wave of grief that flows through the room before it can properly manifest itself. “I’m sorry I asked,” he says, trying to do some kind of damage control.

“No, no. I’m glad you did.” She reaches out to pull him against her side, tucking him up against her even though he’s entirely outgrown her. “It reminds you to make the most of the time you have left, you know? We can’t live forever.”

Richie sees the affection coming and doesn’t do anything to prevent it. She squishes his cheeks between her hands and kisses all over his forehead before pulling him into a hug and saying, “I love you. I love you so much. If I died tomorrow, I’d just want you to know that, okay?”

“Okay. I love you, too,” he says, hugging her back and hiding his smile against her shoulder.

They stay like that for some time, and when she pulls away she doesn’t let go of him altogether. “Richie, do you remember the day Eddie got hurt, and we were driving back from that new Chinese place and you _ begged _ us to drop you off at the Hanlon farm?”

Richie freezes. She _ must _ feel it. He never expected her to make a connection between those two events. “Um. Yeah?” he manages to say, sending up more unheard prayers that she isn’t about to get into what he _ thinks _ she’s about to get into. 

“You knew,” she says, soft and quiet, like she’s trying not to startle him. “You knew, without a phone call or anything. You just _ knew _ something was wrong, didn’t you?”

Richie weighs his options, which are limited. He could lie to her, but he doesn’t have a very good excuse lined up and she’s pretty fucking close to getting at the truth anyway. He trusts her not to sell him to the government for experimentation, which is… good. 

It doesn’t make him much more confident in his decision to nod and say, “Uh, yeah, I guess I did.”

Maggie hums. Her hand rubs soothingly over his shoulder. “You’re very special, Richie. I think maybe I always knew that. There’s something special about you.”

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with me, though,” he makes sure to point out, in case she decides her weirdo psychic son needs a good round of government experimentation _ anyway. _ To be safe. “Just… just _ special.” _

“Oh, no, honey, there’s nothing wrong with you. You’ve just… you’ve always shone a little brighter than most of your peers, if you see what I mean. And those friends of yours, they’re… they’re good. They’re _ right _ for you.”

_ “Oh, mom,” _ he wants to say, _ “you have no idea.” _

But he doesn’t, just nods and forces a smile and throws a thought into the web tangled between himself and the other Losers, _ ‘Hey guys I think my fucking mom knows about the shine haha what the fuck I think she’s onto us,’ _ and, for good measure, _ ‘Did you know all our parents were friends as kids? Maturin set us the fuck up. I’m calling it now.’ _

  
*

Bev saw something when she was stuck in the deadlights. 

More than she told them initially.

“I didn’t want to scare you,” she tells them when she drives down for a weekend visit and gathers them all in the clubhouse. Richie’s sitting upright in the hammock with his feet planted on the floor. He’s got an arm looped as subtly and casually as possible around Eddie’s waist to help keep him upright where he sits beside him.

The heat of his fever burns Richie’s skin through their clothes, but he _ insisted _ on coming out despite their protests. Eddie’s an unstoppable force once he’s made up his mind on something, Richie has found. 

Bev keeps shooting him concerned glances, like she can’t quite believe the state he’s in. Like the rest of them had exaggerated when they were explaining his condition to her.

The fear and uncertainty is creeping into her eyes, too, now that she sees how bad it is, and that Richie isn’t just worrying himself into a frenzy because he’s smitten or something.

It’s good to have Eddie here with them. Comforting. Even though Richie doesn’t like how much he’s sucking on that inhaler or the droopy, hazy look in his eyes or the way he sways precariously where he’s balancing on the edge of the hammock. He _ wanted _ to sit here. Richie couldn’t deny him.

It’s good to see him _ alive _ and somewhat alert and sort-of-breathing.

It makes Richie feel less frantic. Less hollow. Less like he’s fucking losing it.

“What would we be scared of?” Bill asks when Bev doesn’t continue for a few long seconds. “I mean, more scared of than the fucking clown, I guess.”

“I saw everyone die,” she explains finally. A ripple of shock and confusion travels through the clubhouse. “Not all at once, or anything. But how we’ll die as adults, if we don’t go back and deal with it when it wakes up again. Or... or before then.”

“People die anyway, don’t they?” Stan asks, but his voice is strained.

“I think-- I mean, it was hard to tell, and I didn’t really understand back then and it’s all so blurry now. The _ dying _ was vivid. I still have nightmares about it sometimes. But I didn’t know anything about the Turtle so I didn’t _ understand. _ It was like… like a battle of wills.” She lowers herself onto the swing and drags her toes through the dirt. The silence sits heavy around them all until she speaks again. “The Turtle needs us to live long enough to either kill It or produce the next, uh… generation, I guess? It’s hard to _ remember. _ But I think Richie’s _ right. _ I think Maturin passes the _ potential _ to shine on through, like... a predetermined set of bloodlines, and then makes use of that when he needs to.”

“So… so, hold on,” Bill interrupts. “Does that mean the Turtle is expecting us to _ procreate _ at some point? If we _ don’t _ kill It?”

Eddie snorts quietly and then slaps a hand over his mouth and nose, shooting Richie an alarmed look, but Richie isn’t exactly going to fault him for laughing at the idea of fucking, let alone _ having kids. _ That’s fucking absurd.

“Um, yeah, I’m pretty sure. But _ It_ \-- the clown -- wants us to forget all this, and each other, and make sure we all die before any of that can happen, and… I mean, it all kinda felt like a weird dream after waking up but now I can see how the pieces fit together.”

“We’re just pawns in a game,” Ben says slowly. A terrified smile stretches across his face, making him look momentarily insane. “Do we even get a choice?”

Beverly shakes her head. “I don’t think we do. Maturin can probably only protect us for so long.”

“But… the telepathy thing…” Richie tries, and Bev shakes her head again. 

“I don’t have _ all _ the answers, Richie. Just what I _ kind of _ remember from being stuck in some kind of trance where I hallucinated all of you dying over and over again. This was like… background static, in comparison. But I don’t think telepathy is going to protect us from _ dying. _ Just from forgetting.”

Richie can’t imagine _ forgetting _ about his friends. He just doesn’t see how that’s possible. And he doesn’t _ want _ to imagine it, because it hurts to think about.

“It makes sense,” Mike tries. “If Maturin wants us alive long enough to kill It, then It’s probably going to do what It can to make sure we die, especially if we _ did _ hurt It badly. That would explain why Victor is… the way he is.”

“Does it even have the _ energy _ for that?” Richie demands, thinking back on the bleeding, wounded thing that had fled from them in the sewers. It’s going to need to focus time and energy on healing, not on sending puppets after the kids who almost did It in.

“I mean, It’s some kind of cosmic deity, Rich. I don’t think It needs Neosporin, Band-Aids, and bed rest when It's hurt,” Eddie says just loud enough for them to hear, turning a playful smile on Richie that sets his heart fluttering. He returns the expression tenfold, even though a moment ago there was the cold hum of fear flooding his limbs.

He really can’t be scared or upset when Eddie’s looking at him like _ that. _

“It probably has the energy to heal Itself and play puppeteer at the same time,” Ben agrees solemnly. “Which means It probably has the energy to influence our deaths while It waits, even if It’s just doing it passively, or-- or maybe planning something in advance, I dunno.”

“I think we’re the closest anyone has come to killing It,” interjects Bill. He stands abruptly from where he was draped over the arm of the couch to start pacing the length of the clubhouse. “I don’t even know if anyone else managed to _ try. _ We were the first people to hurt It since…” He doesn’t finish that thought, but dives right into the next one. “I think Maturin is especially desperate to keep us alive until the end of this cycle, at _ least, _ because we actually stand a chance of succeeding. It won’t be as easy the second time, he said so, because our imaginations won’t be as strong as when we were kids, but we _ can _ kill It for good.”

“So we have two opposing forces playing tug-of-war with our literal lives, each for their own agenda. Cool. That’s cool.” Richie nods fervently, head aching from trying to keep up with whatever the fuck is going on.

“But the sooner we kill It, the less we have to worry about Maturin failing to protect us,” Bev points out, and Richie _ really _ doesn’t like where this is going. He can tell most of them don’t.

One misadventure per decade was more than enough. A second won’t be necessary, thanks. 

Besides, it’s not as if the fucking Turtle has been doing a bang-up job of protecting them _ anyway. _ His grip on Eddie’s waist tightens, and he tells himself it’s because Eddie’s at risk of falling off the hammock. His feet don’t reach the ground and he can’t balance himself the way Richie can, so he’ll just have to do that for both of them. 

“What are we waiting for, then?” Eddie asks. “Let’s deal with It now and get it over with.” There’s only the slightest tremor of fear in his voice at the prospect. Nothing like the way Richie feels the urge to vomit roiling in his gut just thinking about facing that thing again.

Bev stumbles over her words for a second. She makes meaningful eye contact with Bill. They share a conversation that’s locked between just the two of them even though they _ know _ Eddie can’t hear them.

Everyone else knows what they’re talking about, anyway. 

“Well, we have to make preparations. We can’t just jump into this on a whim like last time.”

“Isn’t it all about, like, our imaginations, though?” Richie asks, just because he needs to be a dickhead to relieve some of the nervous energy building up inside him. “Can’t we just throw a rock at it and pretend it’s a monster-killing grenade?”

“If you have an imagination that strong, feel free to imagine us up a machine gun or two,” Stan says dryly, steady despite the deathly pallor of his skin and the sweat breaking out along his hairline.

“Two machine guns, coming right up.” Richie grins wildly -- too wildly -- and shoots him finger guns. Stan chokes on a hoarse laugh. 

“When should we go?” Eddie asks, not exactly eager. More anxious and impatient. Like the rest of them.

“When… uh…” Bill looks to Bev. Bev makes a _ face. _

“When we’re all feeling up to it,” she says kindly. Vaguely.

Richie knows what she’s doing so he shudders melodramatically and says, “I dunno if I’ll _ ever _ feel up to it.”

He’s as uncomfortable as the others with bringing Eddie into that _ place _ when he’s like this. 

Maybe that isn’t fair of him. Eddie would argue he’s plenty capable.

Richie doesn’t want to risk it. None of them do. Maybe it’s selfish of them. 

It doesn’t feel wrong, though.

Something tells him they’re best off not going _ yet._

* * *


	41. Victor Criss's wild conspiracy theories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We weren’t ever meant to be normal in the first place.”
> 
> They can all see the tears shining in his eyes as Stan lifts his chin and says, “Maybe I want to be, though."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter:  
-graphic violence  
-slight stabbing  
-blood  
-illness (more mentions of cancer)  
-it's pretty sad I guess  
-but if you didn't want to read something sad you wouldn't be here
> 
> I don't particularly like this chapter tbh  
But it's important so I'm gonna publish it anyway.

* * *

May 1994

* * *

It isn’t just an excuse to touch Eddie when Richie offers his arm on the walk home from school. 

He looks like he really needs the extra support. 

Sonia dropped him off this morning, because he threatened to walk by himself if she didn’t let him go -- he’s been feeling “up to it” this week, which isn’t saying much, since he still looks ready to keel over. But she’s been asked to work late and sent a message through to the school for him to get a ride home from “someone respectable.”

(AKA, none of the Losers.)

Too bad everyone agreed on no cars today, since they’d planned on a leisurely Friday afternoon at the clubhouse while the decent weather lasted. There’s no place to hide a whole fucking car in the Barrens, and Bill’s the only one who brought a bike, which means they all have to walk -- including Eddie.

And Richie, because he doesn’t want it to be too obvious to the rest of the world that he _ wants _ Eddie to loop his arm around the crook of his elbow and lean into him, makes sure to be as annoying as possible about it. 

Which means, of course, that Eddie is grinning like a fool the whole time, because no matter how hard he tries, he can’t hide the fact that he thinks Richie is hilarious.

“Tally-ho, old chaps,” he shouts as they’re making their slow way down Kansas Street, aiming for the clubhouse even though Eddie insists he should get home as soon as possible. He’s tugging Richie towards the clubhouse, anyway, and it’s really just to save face that he ever pretends he _ wants _ to go home. 

Spending time with the Losers is obviously the better option, any time. 

“Charting a course for our very own safe haven, a beautiful dirt-and-wood structure designed and built by our very capable, very handsome, Ben Hanscom, decorated exclusively by yours truly--”

“That’s the biggest lie I ever heard,” Eddie snorts.

“Lived in and loved by the seven coolest people to ever grace the face of this planet,” Richie finishes.

“I’m supposed to go straight home after school,” Eddie reminds them again, fruitlessly.

“You’re actually going to leave Harrison Ford out of a list of coolest people on the planet?” Bill asks from somewhere to his left, and Stan snorts indignantly.

“He definitely doesn’t make the top seven, but Cab Calloway better be number _ one _ on that list.”

“I’m gonna have to agree with Stan on this one,” says Mike.

“Who... Who the fuck even _ is _ that?”

“Guys, I think this may have gone over your heads, but the top seven is _us._ _We_ are the coolest,” Richie tries to interject.

“No, no.” Stan holds up a hand to silence him. Eddie shakes with repressed laughter against his side. “Bill needs to be educated. I’ve got tapes at my house we can grab.”

There’s a sudden sharp ringing in Richie’s ear, and he’s just clapping a hand over it as if he can block the noise when he spots movement in his peripheral vision.

Victor Criss is descending on them, bolting across the street faster than Richie thinks _ Eddie _ can move (when he’s healthy, at least). 

“Ohshit_ run!” _ Bill screeches, already scrambling off the sidewalk and down the steep embankment into the Barrens. They _ scatter, _ and for a second Richie thinks they’ll manage to get away and hide somewhere in the woods, reconvene back at the clubhouse -- even Eddie, who’s already gasping for air even though Richie’s doing most of the work here.

Then Stan lets out a shout that can only mean one thing, and he feels a sharp ache through his forearms and knees like a collision with hard dirt and gravel, and he has to -- _ has to _ \-- turn around and go back. “Stay here,” he tells Eddie frantically as he sinks his fingers into the soft earth to haul himself back up onto the shoulder of the road. 

Eddie, naturally, doesn’t listen, and climbs up after him. 

“Get the hell off of me!” Stan is demanding, beating his fists against Vic’s chest. Victor is laughing above him, all low and hollow, eyes flashing. He’s rolled Stan onto his back and is sitting on top of him, pinning him with his weight.

“I just wanna see something. I just wanna see.” He captures Stan’s wrists in one hand and squeezes them together until the bones in _ Richie’s _ wrists ache. 

Stan’s not _ weak, _ but he isn’t strong enough to fight Criss off. Not like _ this. _

Richie’s sprinting towards them, fully intending to knock Victor off of Stan with the full weight of his body. But Victor pulls a switchblade from his pocket, presses the button on the handle so the blade pops out and holds it over Stan’s throat.

“Come one fucking step closer and I’ll do it,” he growls, and Richie’s heart drops to his toes as he skids to a stop a few metres away. “Back the fuck up.”

He does. As quickly as possible, gaze zeroed in on the glint of sharp metal too close to Stan’s jugular. Eddie is in step beside him. He can feel his cold fingers brush over his wrist before Eddie’s whole hand closes around it, holding on for dear life. “Jesus, Vic, you’re not a murderer,” Richie says urgently. _ That’s not certain, is it? _ “Don’t do something stupid.”

_ He isn’t stupid though, is he? _

“I just wanna see. I wanna see what happens.”

“What happens when you… do what?” Eddie asks tentatively.

Richie can see the other Losers shuffling in closer on either side of him, drawn back out of the woods by Stanley’s cry for help and the panic that’s thrumming through his whole body. They’ve felt this before. They’ve been drawn inexorably towards one of their own in times of need before, and now is no different, except _ right now _ there isn’t anything they can do but watch and _ think _ and try to find a way out of it.

Victor draws back his fist and punches Stan once in the face, _ hard; _ hard enough that his head cracks back against the pavement and a wave of dizziness rushes through them all. Richie remembers the conversation from a few weeks ago, when Victor had aimed a jab with his knee at the back of Stan’s head and Richie had reacted, and _ ‘he doesn’t know you felt that.’ _

He bites back a cry when pain tears through his mouth, the feeling of his lip splitting without _ his _ lip splitting, knocked hard against teeth. The thick taste of blood. 

Stan tries to draw a veil down, hide it from them, protect them from it, but it’s _ hard. _ It’s imperfect. 

They all keep their composure well enough, anyway.

“What the _ fuck _ is wrong with you?” Eddie demands. He shifts forward just enough that Richie can feel it with how close they’re pressed together, and his arm shoots out to hold him back, still focused on the knife by the soft flesh of Stan’s throat. 

Criss looks between them all frantically, features twisting into a scowl. Stan’s trying to wriggle out of his grip when he punches him again, higher this time, knuckles slamming hard into his cheek and brow bone, sending a blast of pain through Richie’s eye. His hands curl into fists and he physically bites his tongue to keep from making any noise as his eyes water.

“Get the fuck off of him!” Bill shouts, moving to take a step forward. 

Victor rounds on him, teeth bared, and Bill stops dead. “I’ll kill him, I swear to God. I _ know _ I saw it. I know I fucking did.”

“What are you talking about?” Mike asks, in his best placating voice, like Victor Criss isn’t acting like a rabid animal. 

Stan’s crying quietly, blood staining his teeth from where his lip is split and bleeding, writhing under him like he’ll be able to throw his weight off. And Richie wants to _ help, _ he wants to help so fucking bad, and he _ knows _ everyone else does, too, but he _ can’t _ risk Stan getting hurt _ worse _ because he makes the wrong move. 

There are apologies and reassurances flooding the spaces between them, and Stan _ understands. _ He _ does. _

He doesn’t blame them, but he wants _ out. _

Victor turns to look straight at him and Eddie as he sits back and brings his elbow down _ hard _ on Stan’s stomach, making him _ gag, _ and for a split second Richie is terrified Eddie won’t be able to keep his composure because he’s _ already _ so sick but--

But _ Eddie can’t even fucking feel it. _

In his panic, he’d forgotten.

He turns to watch and Eddie just _ stares _ as he drives his elbow down into Stan’s gut again, drawing a strangled noise out of Stan, but _ nothing _ from Eddie except a seething fury that glows in his eyes and sharpens the set of his jaw.

There’s murderous intent there, but no pain, and all at once Richie realizes that’s _ exactly what Victor is looking for. _

_ ‘He fucking knows.’ _

“I’m _ fucking right. _ I _ know I am,” _ Victor shrieks, maybe just to himself. He looks like he’s gone feral, saliva bubbling at the corners of his mouth, dirty hair hanging over his eyes, which are bulging as he scans the group of terrified Losers assembled before him.

_ ‘Jesus Christ,’ _ is all Bill says, looking from Stan’s predicament to each of them in turn.

_ ‘What can we do?’ _ Mike asks, but no one has a good answer for him.

It doesn’t matter anyway, because in the split second it takes him to wonder that, Victor lifts the switchblade from Stan’s throat and brings it down into the meat of his upper arm instead, right near his shoulder.

It _ hurts like fucking hell. _ Victor _ knows _ about them anyway, and Richie really can’t stop himself from swearing loudly and grabbing at the spot by his shoulder where a horrible pain pierces deep beneath his skin. So fucking what if he _ sees? _

Stan screams and Richie wonders why the fuck he didn’t try to stop him sooner (he fucking knows why, but the guilt is gonna eat him alive now and he _ knows _ that, too). He surges forward to get Victor off of Stan now that the threat of him _ dying _ isn’t so prevalent, but it’s like he blinks and Eddie’s already there, screaming profanities as he bowls Victor over and wrests the blade from his grip.

He freezes in his tracks again, but now it’s because he’s dumbstruck. 

Eddie looks like a light breeze will blow him away, but he’s somehow got the strength of a bear when it comes to defending Stan. Or, any of his friends, he supposes.

Figures.

Richie feels almost proud, but also terribly sad that Eddie even _ needs _ to deal with this while he’s in this state at all. 

By the time he snaps himself out of his daze, Mike is pulling Eddie off of Victor while Bill takes a turn landing a couple blows on Victor’s stupid fucking face.

Ben is helping Stan sit up, pressing a hand over the wound in his arm to staunch the flow of blood.

He doesn’t know where to go first, but he figures Stan needs the most help, since he’s the one who’s probably going to need stitches. He kneels in front of him where he’s propped up against Ben and pulls him into a hug, not caring if he ends up with blood on his clothes. 

“Jesus, Stan,” he whispers, as Stan’s arms wind around his ribs and hold fast. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t want him to fucking kill you. _ Jesus. _ I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Stan croaks, even though Richie’s already decided it isn’t. He didn’t act fast enough, didn’t _ think _ fast enough, and now Stan’s bleeding all over the both of them and it was once again Eddie who had to jump in and put himself in danger to protect them. 

Because Richie _ didn’t. _

“Stop putting yourself down,” Eddie says suddenly from beside him, and he jumps as he opens his eyes. 

“Nice try. You can’t even read my mind.”

He’s not sure it’s okay for him to say that. Eddie seemed to really struggle with it at first.

Hell, he’s _ still _ struggling with it, and Richie honestly isn’t much better off.

But Eddie flashes him a wobbly grin and says, “I don’t have to.”

“He would’ve slit my throat if you tried anything stupid, Richie. I’m glad you didn’t,” Stan says, solemn and serious, and he gives one last squeeze to Richie’s poor ribs before letting go. “Can we just… go to the clubhouse now. Please?”

“Uh, I’m not sure--” Ben tries to say, but Eddie nods and uses Richie’s shoulder to help himself stand up. 

“Yeah, we should.”

No one argues.

“Where did Criss _ go?” _ Richie asks, looking around as he stands, too, and him and Ben help Stan to his feet. 

“Bill kicked him in the face and he ran away with his tail between his legs,” Mike says, a glimmer of triumph in his voice.

“It was an accident,” Bill informs them, and they _ know _ it wasn’t, but they nod along anyway.

He deserved it, after all. 

Stan ends up leaning on Ben for support most of the way. He’s visibly shaking. The flow of blood from his arm slows significantly within a few minutes, and the wound isn’t so deep as to be life-threatening, but it _ fucking hurts, _ and Richie still thinks a few stitches would be the wiser choice. 

But Stan’s been through a lot, and he gets to call the shots for a bit, maybe because they _ all _ feel a little guilty for failing to stop that from escalating. Except Eddie, who is always perfectly content to avoid hospitals at all costs and who is of the firm belief that he can patch Stan up just fine at the clubhouse.

Richie can’t stop thinking about how _ fucked _ everything is.

Victor Criss had once, perhaps unwittingly, saved Richie's life back in that summer of '89. He'd caught up to him first -- one of the fastest of Bowers' cronies -- when the gang gave chase, somewhere near the place where the sun-lit street gave way to a dark tangle of thick and twisted trees at the edge of the Barrens. The kind of place that made the whole wood seem foreboding, even to boys who entertained themselves with illusions of bravery and invincibility. In the brief moment they were out of sight of the rest of his pals, Victor Criss had told him quietly, urgently, _ "Run, Four-eyes," _ and shoved him right into that shaded, thorny thicket. Vic had known, then, that something dark was growing inside Henry and eating away at his insides and his sanity, and that it would be hard to stop him from maiming and harder still to stop him from killing, once he set his mind to it. 

Except in the least amusing of ironies, here he is now, halfway to insanity and just as unaware of it as Henry Bowers had probably been during his own descent. But a hell of a lot smarter, which makes him a hell of a lot more dangerous. 

Makes him a hell of a lot better at manipulating his "friends" into doing his bidding.

If Derry, the town that seems to feed on chaos and fear, was going to make some kind of puppet out of anyone, couldn't it have been Belch, who's slow at best? Or Moose, whose brute strength rivals Belch's but whose IQ manages to make Belch look like a goddamn genius? 

The trek to the clubhouse is a sombre affair. No one says much of anything, inside or out, except for Mike to ask a couple times if Stan is okay even though they can all _ feel _ that he isn’t.

Maybe not in body, but especially not in mind.

Stan had told Richie years ago, when it was just the two of them chumming down at the Aladdin, waiting for their Saturday matinee and taking turns at Pac-Man, that it was kind of nice to be a loser. How it was nice to be able to call themselves Losers and have it mean something good.

_ “Because if you’re already a loser, you know, you have nothing more to lose.” _

Though, he couldn’t have anticipated how wrong the passage of time would prove him.

It’s once they’ve all piled inside, and Eddie’s kneeling by Stan with his first aid kit open in front of him, that anyone actually tries to _ talk _ about it.

Richie can’t stand the tense silence, so he swallows down the lump of fear blocking his throat and says, “What do you reckon is gonna happen now?”

As with all things, everyone’s heads turn to Bill, and inside Richie can hear Bev asking, hesitant, _ ‘You guys don’t think anyone would actually cut us open for research, do you? That’s unethical, right?’ _

Before Bill -- poor Big Bill, always expected to have the answers even though he’s barely grown, same as the rest of them -- even has a chance to respond, Stan is speaking.

He’s gone sickly pale, a sheen of sweat coating his face and prominent purple marks under his eyes, and Richie knows that. Knows it like he knows the sound of Eddie wheezing through an asthma attack, or the tongue-twisted impediment when Bill tries to speak out loud through fear, or the sound of any of them screaming. He knows that whole summer too vividly -- _ much too _ vividly, as if something is trying so hard to make sure he doesn’t forget that it’s eternally set at the forefront of his mind. 

Stan looks just as much like hell as he ever did on those dog days of summer when something otherworldly hunted them and they were left to fend for themselves with nothing but their imaginations and sheer determined will to fucking live. And it isn’t just because he’s hurt pretty bad (not the worst they’ve ever seen, but bad _ enough). _

“This isn’t fucking normal,” he grits out, white-knuckling the hem of his shorts. “We’re not… we’re not _ normal. _ This shouldn’t even be happening because I should be _ normal.” _

There’s quiet for a moment, and Richie can sense Bill building up to saying something that’ll help. What comes out is: “We-- We weren’t ever meant to be normal in the first place.”

They can _ all _ see the tears shining in his eyes as Stan lifts his chin and says, “Maybe I _ want _ to be, though,” his lip wobbling all the while.

Eddie’s so quiet (so quiet and lethargic and unlike himself) as he tries to bring Stan’s face back down towards him to clean the blood from that trembling lip. 

Eddie’s hands shake. His breath rattles high in his chest. He looks more like shit than Stan, and Stan just narrowly avoided the ass-kicking of a lifetime, if only by virtue of Eddie coming to the rescue. The reckless, _ stupid _ rescue that none of the rest of them were brave enough to attempt.

Richie wants to die, wants to succumb to that horrid ache deep in his chest, just watching him try to work through it to fix Stan up for them.

“There’s something _ wrong _ with us. Maybe it seems like it’s all fun and games, but you _ know _ this isn’t right.” _ It’s an affront. _

Something just as offensive as, say, shape-shifting clown monsters eating children, or summoning up illusions of drowned boys or werewolves or lepers or giant birds. 

For once, “extraordinary” is beginning to take on a negative meaning for them. Or at least for the first time since the initial panic -- before they realized Derry is the kind of place grown-ups don’t seem to notice much, and that the seven of them are too busy being outcasts for anyone to pay much attention to them, outside of a handful of bullies.

“Stan, please stay still,” Eddie’s murmuring, one hand on his cheek to turn Stan back towards him, and he quietly and unquestioningly wipes away the tears that are cutting through the dirt and blood on Stan’s face. Eddie probably knows better than most of them how Stan feels right now. Criss has been foolish enough to view Eddie as an easy target just because of his stature, or maybe his constitution, and he’s been _ damn _ wrong, but Eddie hasn’t come out of it unscathed.

Maybe he’s easy to beat up, just as much as any of the rest of them, but it’s hard to keep him down. Eddie’s got this unwavering will and fierce determination that makes even Richie envious at times. Hell, he looks like he should be confined to bed rest right now, but he’s still trucking, following them all around and pulling Victor Criss off of poor Stan, landing a few good hits himself. He’s the one playing doctor while the rest of them sit around like numb idiots, quaking in the aftershocks of someone _ finding _ out, and _ how could that have happened? _

Victor Criss isn’t stupid, not by any stretch of the imagination -- not the way Belch Huggins or Moose Sadler are. He’s also borderline obsessed with the seven of them, to the point Richie is surprised he hasn’t broken into their houses and tried to kill them in the middle of the night. It seems that half the time they look over their shoulders while in town, he’s lingering nearby, waiting for a chance to spring. And the days he catches any of them alone, they’re in for a world of hurt. 

Bill’s still got a bruise on his cheek from a few weeks back. The deep scrapes on Mike’s legs and forearms are only just starting to heal. Eddie’s still favouring his left leg because Criss thought it would be funny to try stomping on his ankle until it broke -- thankfully unsuccessfully. Even sick as he is, Eddie’s still a fighter. Criss ended up worse off after that altercation, and bitter about it. 

Richie has a bruise blossoming across his cheeks from Criss nearly breaking his nose when he was dumb enough to try going to the library alone. 

He’d only wanted to get a copy of _ Pride and Prejudice _ to read to Eddie, because he mentioned he hadn’t read it but heard it was good, and if he could only go to the stupid library, he’d get himself a copy.

Richie doesn’t know why he thought he’d fare any better, going off into town by himself like that.

In his head, Richie likes to blame his reluctance to have Eddie separated from their group on _ that, _ solely, and not the fact that he wants to be around him as much as possible (or that he’s _ sick _ and Richie can’t bear to see him sick, and would quite literally trade his own life to make Eddie better). 

They’ve all dealt with the split lips and the black eyes, the twisted ankles from being pushed around, the rocks and beer bottles thrown at their heads, the air rifles fired in their direction. 

Hell, Richie’s _ positive _ he and Eddie had a brush with death the night Criss and his buddies went out shooting with _ real _ guns in the Barrens. 

Criss has put his hands on Bill’s throat and Belch has tried to bash Richie’s brains in -- or out, whichever you’d prefer. They’ve come halfway to ripping Eddie’s damn arms off. They’ve followed Bev for blocks and blocks whistling and laughing roughly amongst themselves when she’s visiting in the summer, their malicious intent tangible as she walked faster and faster, until several Losers, who had all but sprinted to join her, met up with her along the way. They’ve tried carving all of them up with that old switchblade Vic got from Henry, at one time or another, and Eddie and Ben (and now, Stan) have the scars to prove it.

It’s reasonable to say he doesn’t want Eddie to be alone so often just because it means they all have to worry about Criss getting hold of him.

_ (again) _

He’s _ glad _ to have Eddie here with them now, even if the way he looks has _ Richie _ wishing for a year-long nap and some goddamn Tylenol. Though he can’t say he’s glad for the circumstances. 

And Stan can’t seem to control the ache that’s weighing down on his entire body, not nearly as well as Eddie could, or even Bev. Stan’s good at blocking out thoughts but not so good at blocking out feelings, Richie has found, and he sure as hell _ feels _ it when Eddie starts cleaning out the gash on Stan’s shoulder, still soaking blood into the pale blue fabric of his once-pristine shirt. There’s a collective, hissing inhale from five bodies when the antiseptic comes in contact with the wound, and a fleeting thought from Ben about hospitals and _ proper _ stitches -- not the butterfly stitches Eddie has in the first aid kit -- which tapers off into an apology when Stan gives him a _ look. _

All in all, shit is _ not _ looking swell.

“You think anyone’s gonna believe Criss if he tries to tattle on us, or are they just gonna throw him in Juniper Hill to live out the rest of his days palling around with Bowers, like old times?”

_ ‘Beep-beep,’ _ Bev chastises from far away, and she might not mean to, but deep down she’s thinking, _ wish I was there, wish I could help, I wish I could be there for you; I really really do. _

“It _ does _ sound crazy. Even assuming anyone listens to him, they’re probably just going to think he’s crazy. Right?” Mike asks, looking around at all of their faces but settling inevitably on Bill’s. 

Bill’s quiet is unnerving, and he’s staring down at his lap for a painful stretch of time before he says, “I mean… I hope so.”

_ ‘You _ ** _mean,_ ** _ you _ ** _know_ ** _ so,’ _ Bev is insisting immediately, and Ben is nodding right along. 

“We’ll be fine, Bill,” he says, lacking much conviction but full to the brim with _ wanting _ to believe it.

Richie’s feeling just as down as the rest of them. And if nothing else, he’s good at bringing people back _ up. _ Or, he’s good at _ attempting _ to bring people back up, so he says, “Hey, at least if all our careers fail, we can be, like, street magicians, and blow peoples’ minds with our uncanny abilities.”

“Richie, that’s stupid,” Eddie says without missing a beat, but there’s a ghost of a smile on his face as his warm eyes flicker over to meet Richie’s for a brief second. 

Richie shrugs. “Option two is forming a superhero team and having comic books made about us. We have all the best powers. True Aim Girl. Leader Guy. Navigation Man. I’m pretty sure Mikey can talk to animals. That’s a superpower.”

“I cannot,” Mike says, but he’s smiling, too. 

“At least our origin story would be interesting. No radioactive spider bites here, no sir, no way. Just magic Turtle-Gods of the universe and sewer clowns who want to eat our faces off.”

Despite themselves, everyone laughs at that, even Stan and Eddie. It’s a soft little thing, coming from Eddie, but it makes his whole face glow, and a sliver of pink tongue pokes out between his teeth, and he looks more like himself again. 

Less like he’s dancing with death.

_ (Richie couldn’t he _ ** _can’t_ ** _ he isn’t gonna think about that, he _ ** _refuses)_ **

But he’s turning to look right at Richie with his smile bright and Richie’s favourite sound spilling from his lips, and more than feeling suddenly revitalized, Richie feels… swept up in a current. His poor, fragile heart seizes between his ribs and he recalls that _ thing _ Stan told him about. How they can all sense how he feels about Eddie. He’s sure they can all sense it _ now, _ and as terrifying as that is, he doesn’t have it in him to care. 

So what if he loves Eddie so much it hurts sometimes?

It’s almost confusing to him that the rest of them _ don’t. _ Not in the same way, at least.

“You should be all set, Stan,” Eddie’s telling Stanley as he looks up at him again. “Just be careful not to move that arm too much for a few days. He cut pretty deep.”

Somewhere, Stan thinks that _ he wouldn’t have cut me at all if I were just a normal person, _ but it’s overlaid with a calm acceptance. What’s done is done, after all, and they’ve been given a “gift” with no return policy. 

They’re quite literally stuck in each other’s heads, presumably for the rest of their lives. However long those lives _ last, _ with the looming, albeit distant, threat of It coming back in twenty or so years to finish the job.

_ (unless something elses finishes it first, of course) _

“See, we doan need no stinkin’ haw-speedal,” Richie says to Ben in his worst Pancho Vanilla Voice, which gets Eddie laughing again, somehow even _ quieter, _ as he stands to stretch out his aching limbs and stumbles over to the empty hammock. Richie switches over to Toodles to add, “Doctor K is on the case, and he’s very good, yes, _ right _ good, indeed, wot-wot!”

“You’re ridiculous,” Eddie says this time, grinning ear-to-ear, as he settles himself into the fold of the fabric with a heavy sigh, all the tension seeping out of his body as he relaxes into it. Richie can sense the desire to sleep, to just lie down and rest his eyes, even when he can’t read Eddie’s thoughts like he used to. It’s only a couple of seconds before he’s out like a light.

_ ‘That’s just one of the many miracles of my comforting presence,’ _ Richie tells the group at large, smiling maniacally at them even though his muscles are trying to contort themselves into a frown.

“He’s had a long day,” Mike tries to reassure him, but it doesn’t do the trick.

Richie reaches into his pocket for the Lucky Strikes in there, and he unlatches the “window” to let air flow through the clubhouse as he lights one up. Eddie doesn’t like that he smokes, because it causes cancer, and he’s always quick to remind Richie how his dad died of cancer, and _ do you want to die like that, too? _

_ Of course not. Of fucking course not. _

He’s just stressed. Just a touch. There’s some kind of culmination building on the horizon, like static electricity in the air, and they all feel it. Too much is happening nowadays for Richie _ not _ to be stressed, what with graduation coming up, and their move to Portland (Richie still kind of wants to go to LA, but he’s not stupid enough to think any of them can even _ begin _ to afford the cost of living there). And Vic Criss being _ onto them, _ and Eddie being so so fucking sick. 

_ “My dad died from cancer, you know. It just ate him up slowly from the inside and he just got sicker and sicker and there was nothing they could do.” _

There’s no way It’s coming back, not so soon, but something else big is coming for them, or else lots of small things are reaching a zenith at once, and they need to brace for impact. 

Things are coming to a head, and they can all sense it, just the same as they could all sense that the seven of them were meant to be the first time they were all together, after that apocalyptic rock fight. The same way they could sense it when things that were _ supposed _to take place were happening to them, or around them, or when they were conduits for those things coming to fruition.

He sucks back a lungful of smoke and chokes on it a bit, blinking his watering eyes while Bill thumps him on the back, and he remembers -- with more clarity than seems necessary -- the smoke-hole and this exact sensation back then, as if time just folded back on itself for a split second, and it’s that brief lapse that starts the _ real _ tears dripping down his cheeks. 

Things didn’t get _ much _ lighter with Richie’s goofing, but somehow the mood drops even lower than before when Bill is pulling him into a hug and telling him, “I know. It’s-- It’s okay, Richie.” _ ‘I understand.’ _

Surely he does. Surely they _ all _ do. 

Mike comes to them first, putting his arms around them. Mike’s always given the best hugs. That’s just a fact. Richie melts right into it and tries to flash Mike a grateful smile even though he’s still sniffling like a baby. The rest of the Losers, sans Eddie and Bev, who are dead asleep and all the way in Portland, respectively, are quick to join them. It’s Bill (of course it is) who says, with slightly more confidence than before, “We’ll be okay. _ All _ of us.”

“I wonder what the fucking Turtle would do right about now,” Richie says once he’s calmed down enough to speak. “He’s gotta have all the answers, right?”

There’s a sensation that sweeps through the room all at once, like a heavy curtain dropping down on a stage. It’s thick like summer humidity, even though this is an arguably pleasant spring day. They all stiffen up at the change in atmosphere as it crackles like electricity. Like a storm is brewing right here inside the clubhouse, and if Richie blinks he might open his eyes again to see fat purple clouds piling up around the shadows of the low ceiling, and if he blinks again a lightning strike will come down right in the centre and blind them all.

It swells and swells like an endless orchestral crescendo until breathing feels next to impossible. It should be a downpour. There should be a rumble of thunder rolling closer and closer to them, and then a deafening crash as everything finally breaks overhead, as they’re all electrocuted together, the five of them, all frozen in place, hearts pounding in unison. And Bev -- Bev, too, is frozen wherever she is in her life in Portland, listening in with bated breath, heart racing, eyes staring at a fixed point in space. Just the same as the rest of them.

A sound like TV static fills the quiet air of the clubhouse. Somehow it doesn’t make any sound at all, either, and more than anything it’s just echoing and reverberating inside their heads until they can’t distinguish it from _ real _ sound. 

There’s an urgency to it. A helplessness. A _ plea. _

Something terribly mortal about the sensation that crackles through each of them, to the tips of their fingers, and makes their hair stand on end. 

It’s a shift. Something changing. Something going awry.

Richie can’t _ fucking breathe. _

The strange, heavy power that’s filling the room shatters at the smallest sound -- a gasp, as Eddie sits up so fast the hammock nearly flips right over itself. It’s like everyone’s muscles unlock and Richie realizes he really _ has _ hardly been breathing this whole time, and... and how much time has even passed? The horrible static sound stays like it’s been etched into the wooden walls of the clubhouse, an ominous echo.

It was… something from the Turtle. It had to be. What else could it be?

They don’t know what, exactly, but the foreboding lingers all the same, and Richie can sense it in all the bodies around him. He sees a flash of the future they’re all hurtling hopelessly towards.

He sees that sooner or later, they’re going to find themselves right back here, a little worse for wear, maybe not as strong or as capable or as imaginative (or, if they cross their fingers or pray hard enough, maybe _ better _ with all those things). They’re going to fight It. Maybe they’re going to win.

Maybe they’re all going to die down in the bowels of this forsaken town and rot there for eternity, and their _ Turtle _ is going to have to piece together a new gaggle of soldiers from scratch, just the same way Richie suspects he had to piece _ this _ one together through meddling and “guiding” over the course of many generations.

Richie shakes the stiffness out of his limbs and his attention turns first to Eddie, as it often does. Eddie, who is clutching his nose as blood dribbles out between his fingers, and the only thing he thinks to say is, “Aw, shit,” as he’s reaching to steal the hanky from Stan’s pocket. Because Stan is just like a regular geezer, and Richie knows all his methods and mannerisms: like how he always double-knots his shoelaces and always irons his own clothes and always keeps a handkerchief on hand just in case. 

“Here, c’mere.” He helps Eddie swing his legs over the edge of the hammock so his feet are dangling off the floor and presses the handkerchief under his nose while with his other hand he pinches just above Eddie’s nostrils, and Eddie, hands soaked with blood, doesn’t protest. “I don’t gotta tell you to keep your head tipped forward, do I?”

“No, ‘cause otherwise the blood will go down my throat,” Eddie scoffs, like he can’t imagine anyone being stupid enough to tip their head _ back _ when they have a nosebleed. 

Richie grins. “Right-o, old chap, that’s spot on! Someone give this man a prize!”

Eddie smiles at him through lips stained red and his eyes light up even though the skin around them is dark and bruised, and when he laughs it’s still feeble but still beautiful. It’s a damn good thing Richie’s hands are occupied, or he might just do something stupid like stroke his cheek a little too reverently or comb his fingers through his hair. And he thinks, between _ that _ and the way he’s feeling right now, all out in the open so that there’s no _ way _ he won’t pick up on it. Even if he _ can’t _ read Richie’s mind right now, Eddie would probably catch on pretty quick.

*

None of them should be alone, is the consensus as they’re all leaving the clubhouse, but there are some hitches in that plan. Namely that they can’t be living at each other’s houses for the rest of the semester. Also, that Eddie isn’t _ allowed _ to sleep out, or have people over. Just him being out right now is playing with fucking fire, and when his mom sees the blood on his shirt she’ll _ flip. _

Bill races down to the Costello Avenue Market once they reach Kansas Street to buy him a chocolate milk, at Ben’s request, to hide the blood with. Bill’s also the one to escort him home while everyone else watches anxiously from the end of the block, after they ask Eddie over and over if there’s _ any way _ he can lock or at least _ block _ his window so Victor fucking Criss can’t do something crazy like break into his house and slit his throat in the middle of the night.

Richie’s pretty sure he’s going to give himself an ulcer worrying about that, anyway.

He has _ one _ solution to that problem, and it’s the same one he uses almost every night lately.

Bill comes back looking all mopey and pensive, equally reluctant to just leave Eddie all alone after the day they’ve had. 

“Um, I guess my parents will be cool with it if everyone sleeps over tonight. Since it’s a Friday and all,” he decides, and they disperse in small groups to pack overnight bags.

Richie knows he won’t be sticking around, anyway. The rest of them know, too. 

His regular nightly routine nowadays involves a whole lot of _ not sleeping. _ Instead, he’s usually sneaking into Eddie’s room, removing the window screen that Eddie usually leaves a corner popped out on, to make it easier for him.

It’s part of why Richie’s so fucking worried about Criss, in whatever frenzy he’s caught up in, doing _ exactly that. _ Because it’s just too easy.

But Richie will be there. He’ll stay at Bill’s until he’s almost positive Sonia is sleeping, and then he’ll slip out to race over to the Kaspbrak household, scale the low roof at the back of the house and let himself into Eddie’s room, and maybe only then will he feel reassured that nothing bad will happen to Eddie. He’ll lie awake for most of the night, like he always does, trying to memorize the details of Eddie’s face.

Just in case.

He’ll listen intently for any indication that Sonia is awake: creaking mattress springs, heavy footfalls, the squeak of door hinges as she leaves her room to check on him.

If she comes snooping around, he can hide himself in the back of the closet, or slip back outside and drop into the overgrown mess of weeds surrounding the porch, until he’s sure the danger has passed.

And they _ know. _ They understand. 

All of them are more comfortable with the idea of Richie losing sleep over this than ever before, now that they all have to worry so desperately over Vic’s next move and Eddie’s separation from them.

They spend the evening doing homework and exam prep in Bill’s basement. It’s a quiet affair. Stan’s aches and pains still sit deep under their skin. Anxiety is burning heavily in all the channels connecting them.

_ What’s next? _ they all wonder.

_ What do we do? _

For now, Richie supposes, just keep an eye on each other.

They watch a movie in near-silence. Richie doesn’t register any of it. He doesn’t even know what the fuck it _ is. _

He’s pressed close against Stan the whole time, grabbing at his wrist every once in a while to press his fingers over his pulse point, just to make sure. Just to know he didn’t fuck up _ too _ bad. That his hesitation hasn’t cost him dearly. 

Stan won’t go to the hospital, because it isn’t _ that _ bad, he insists. He doesn’t want the fuss. He doesn’t want to have to explain what happened to his parents. They’ll understand the split lip and the black eye as one of the dangers of boyhood, but he sure as fuck won’t let them see the gash Criss left in his arm. 

He trusts that Eddie took care of it well enough that a trip to the hospital isn’t warranted, and Richie doesn’t think he’s _ wrong, _ but it’s an awful lot of trust to put in someone their age for something like _ this. _

Still, haven’t they trusted Eddie -- a much younger Eddie -- with much more significant things? 

It’s slowly approaching midnight when Richie removes himself from them, pulling a sweater on to protect himself from the chill of the night air as he tells them he’ll be back eventually.

Maybe.

“We’ll walk with you,” Mike says, as he and Bill stand, too. “To be safe.”

Richie doesn’t tell them no. It _ makes sense. _ He can’t exactly protect Eddie from the threat of Vic breaking into his house to kill him if Vic murders Richie in the street on his way over.

The walk is quiet, too. Painfully so. He can sense that Mike and Bill are conversing privately in their heads, but that’s about it. 

He tries to move as quickly as possible, in case something already happened, or -- God forbid -- he arrives just _ seconds _ too late.

They’re quickly approaching the seemingly undisturbed peace of the house on Astoria when he feels Bill’s hand wrap around his and squeeze. Grounding. Reassuring.

It’s more than just the threat of Victor Criss that’s got his heart in a vice, and they know _ that, _ too.

He isn’t as terrified by that as he always thought he’d be. He doesn’t know why he ever thought it would matter to them. The way he is. The way he loves.

But, Criss is the biggest fear _ now, _ right next to the problem that’s been plaguing them for almost five years.

“We have to do something about that fucking clown,” he says, strained, turning to look at them both in turn. “We have to do something about it _ soon, _ before Criss snaps and guts us all.”

“I know.” Bill’s voice is strained. “But all seven of us need to be there.”

And Richie knows what he means, but he also knows there’s no point pretending Eddie is anything _ close _ to weak and fragile, no matter how true that _ seems _ to be. He doesn’t want Eddie down there any more than the rest of them. But he knows Eddie’s more than capable of fending for himself, and would be _ insulted _ that they put off the whole affair just for _ his _ sake. 

He’d march them all down there in a heartbeat just to kick Its ass, if it meant protecting them, and Richie’s beginning to realize that the courtesy needs to extend both ways.

Because none of them can protect each other properly while the threat still lurks under them, asleep or not. 

Mike seems to pick up on this the quickest. “I don’t think anything would stop Eddie. He proved that today, didn’t he?”

“He could probably take the fucker down all on his own,” Richie says in an attempt at lightheartedness. Mike’s face splits into a warm smile, so it must work.

“Yeah, but he won’t have to. We’ll be there to back him up.”

Richie pulls Mike into a firm hug just as they stop at the end of the driveway. He lets a few tears slip out as he squeezes his eyes shut and clings to Mike like he’s a lifeline. “We _ have _ to,” he says, breaking away to look at Bill. “I don’t care if it’s tomorrow or three weeks from now. He’s--” Richie’s breath catches and the urge to cry slaps him across the face again, but he forces it away. “--He’s probably not going to get _ better, _ Bill. We have to do it while we can.”

Bill looks positively fucking heartbroken as he says, “I don’t want him to get hurt.”

“He wouldn’t want you to make that decision for him,” Richie argues with finality, and he separates himself from them to hurry up the driveway, drawn by the need to ensure Eddie’s safety. He makes his way around into the backyard to climb up the porch railing and let himself into Eddie’s room, where he’s already sound asleep and perfectly safe.

Mike and Bill are a lingering presence in his mind as they make their way back to the Denbroughs’, and Bill’s resistance to their intent to _ finish what they started _ wanes under Mike’s gentle counterpoints and careful reassurances. 

Richie listens in as the Losers drop off to sleep, one by one, sitting up with a hand resting on Eddie’s ribs, monitoring the slow rise-and-fall of his chest. He keeps his gaze trained on the window and his ear trained on the hallway outside the room, like a devoted guard dog. 

He doesn’t leave until he can hear Sonia moving around in the other bedroom, assured that she won’t let Eddie out of her sight for the rest of the day, which for _ once _ is a good thing. 

When he’s back at Bill’s house, he finds that the Losers have set up a bed for him and left it unoccupied. He’s out the second his head hits the pillow. He sleeps away the rest of the morning right there on an air mattress in Bill’s basement, plagued by strange, urgent dreams that prevent him from getting any real rest.

* * *


	42. Bill's bad dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _‘Richie,’_ Bills says once again.   
And when he draws back to look Richie in the eye, he’s _haunted._   
“I-- I think she’s _poisoning_ him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains pretty much all the usual warnings.  
-lots of vomiting  
-severe illness  
-Sonia being a piece of garbage even though I don't think she actually even makes an appearance in this one lol  
-homophobic language & internalized homophobia

* * *

June 1994

* * *

Eddie manages to drag his ass to school only because he’s stubborn as hell and no force on this Earth (not even Sonia Kaspbrak herself) can stop him from getting his way sometimes.

_ He’s going to write his final exams if it fucking kills him, _ is the mindset he’s going into this with. And it honestly looks like it  _ might _ kill him, at this rate. 

Richie hasn’t seen him suck on an inhaler this much in literal  _ years, _ and even then it doesn’t seem to be helping any.

Mike makes the mistake of offering to carry his backpack for him as they all pretend not to escort him to his homeroom for his math class, which just results in a pouting, defiant Eddie clinging to the straps settled on his shoulders with shaking hands. “I don’t  _ want _ help,” he insists, which they all internally agree makes sense, considering his mom practically smothers him with “help” every day of his life and he’s sick to death of it.

“What if you  _ need _ help?” Richie can’t stop himself from asking.

“Then I’ll  _ ask _ for it.”

“No you won’t.”

And Eddie doesn’t get mad. He doesn’t even get all cute and pouty again. In fact, he cracks a chapped-lipped smile and says, “No, I won’t,” and when Richie laughs about it, he does, too, until he has to grab the inhaler again. 

The only reason he isn’t failing this semester is because the Losers keep bringing his homework and lists of test dates to him, and he’s such a stubborn ass that even a morning spent up close and personal with a toilet bowl won’t deter him from sneaking out as soon as Mrs. K has left for work. At this point, Richie doesn’t even give him a chance to bike or walk, and just meets him at the Kaspbrak house so he can drive him to school.

He doesn’t ask; just  _ does. _

Eddie hasn’t complained yet.

By the time lunch rolls around, Eddie looks as close to collapsing as ever, and Richie has to ease into the suggestion of playing hooky for the rest of the day just to get him home. 

“My comic order came in at Rogue’s. I was thinking of dipping to go read the new  _ X-Men. _ Get some popcorn and go to the clubhouse. Make a day of it, y’know. You in, Big Bill?” he asks as he watches Eddie count out pills into his hand and feels his heart sink right through the linoleum floor of the cafeteria.

“I can’t miss French again or Madame Lanoue is gonna have my head,” Bill says without looking up from his book. 

“Really? I can’t even tempt you with  _ X-Men? _ They left us on a cliffhanger last time!” 

Bill knows  _ exactly _ what games he’s playing, thanks to the cosmic interference of one giant turtle. He only shakes his head as he bites into a pear. “Why don’t you take Eddie? He’s the one who complained the most about the stupid cliffhanger.”

Richie tries not to seem too excited by the prospect as he rounds on Eddie, who’s washing his cocktail of pills down with water. “Eddie, skip school with me, for old time’s sake! I wanna get my comics before the after-school rush.  _ Please?” _ Richie clasps his hands together and bends at the waist, nearly shoving Stan off the bench in his display of veneration. “Don’t make me go by myself.”

“I need to get my exam notes together, Rich. I can go with you after school, if you want. At this point my mom probably already called the house and figured out I left, if she doesn’t think I’m still sleeping. Might as well draw it out.” He gives a half-shrug and breaks a tiny piece off the granola bar he nabbed from Richie, setting it on his tongue and taking his time chewing it.

“What, does she  _ want _ you to fail, or something?” Richie teases to hide his disappointment. 

Frankly, he would  _ also _ rather see Eddie safe at home right now. Richie doesn’t like Sonia, and he definitely doesn’t  _ trust  _ her, not after what she did to Eddie. No lapse in judgment should ever result in your kid getting hurt like that.

But he’ll be damned if this isn’t the one thing he might agree with her on.

Besides, even if it makes her a fucking hypocrite, he’s pretty sure Mrs. K will kill him, and then bring him back to life just to kill him again, if he lets something bad happen to Eddie.

They’ve gotta look past some transgressions in this situation, he supposes.

“Why don’t any of you love me enough to skip with me?” Richie laments when Eddie doesn’t answer him, flopping back dramatically against Stan with an arm over his eyes.

“We love you enough to make an attempt at salvaging your education,” Stan says as he shoves him off.

“You and I both know I’m a certifiable genius, Stanley. I could go to Harvard if I wanted. And I can  _ also _ skip whatever classes I want without jeopardizing my grades.”

“Not everyone has that luxury,” Mike reminds him placidly.

Richie heaves a sigh as he hunches down to rest his chin on his folded arms, giving up on his ploy to lure Eddie out of school for the afternoon. “Is anyone busy later? We could at  _ least _ have a comic party after school. Snacks and drinks on me.”

“If you keep stealing from the canteen at work, eventually they’re going to fire you,” Ben says absently. He’s monopolizing an entire end of the table for some project for his shop class. It’s due last period and he’s been “adding the finishing touches” for three days now, so his hands are smeared with paint as he labours over each little detail. The paint fumes have probably started to affect his brain at this point. 

“So what you’re saying is, you don’t want me to provide for you, for  _ free, _ anymore?”

“I’m only offering a necessary warning.” Ben turns the little wooden model of a house this way and that, and smears paint on his eyebrow when he makes the mistake of touching his face with the hand that’s holding the brush. “Do you think the dark blue with white trim looks okay? Or should I change it back to light blue? I might have time to change it if that looked better.”

“Benny, you know you’re being graded on the  _ construction, _ not the flowers in the windowsill, right?”

“Presentation is important, too,” Ben argues as he smears more fucking paint on his face.

_ ‘Someone please help this kid,’ _ Richie says as a plea to the rest of the group, but Ben’s eyes still snap up to him and he shakes his head with a half-smile fighting its way into place.

“Um,” says Mike from across the table. “Eddie, are you alright?”

Four other pairs of eyes turn immediately to the space beside Richie.

Eddie seems to turn away in defiance of the attention, pushing further into Richie’s space like he can hide himself. But it’d be pretty hard to hide the blotchy red rash that’s blooming across his cheeks and creeping down his arms. 

Richie had good fucking reason for wanting to get him somewhere to rest, obviously.

“Shit, Eds, should you go to a doctor?”

“No, it’s-- it’s fine. Just itchy. It usually happens around this time. It’s  _ fine. _ The medication I just took should help,” he says, practically into Richie’s shirt.

_ “Have _ you been to a doctor?” Stan asks, craning his neck to see around Richie.

Eddie heaves a quiet sigh. “Yes, Stan, I’ve seen a fucking doctor.”

“Well, what’d they say?”

There’s a collective breath of anticipation from around the table as they all wait to hear the C-word finally get dropped into a conversation. Richie’s not so sure he  _ wants _ to hear it. He thinks the universe might implode around him if Eddie says it’s  _ that. _

Eddie shrugs. “I dunno. They all just end up talking to my mom. She doesn’t like having me in the room because she doesn’t want me to get stressed about it, y’know.”

A brief silence sits over them all as they consider that, then Bill finally speaks up. “How do you know she’s not just giving you placebos again, then?”

Eddie stares at him for a long while, facing becoming increasingly blotchy even as he folds his hands on the tabletop and purses his lips. “Well, fuck,” he says, “I sure hope not. I  _ need _ real medicine now.”

“I think you should try seeing a doctor on your own.” Mike throws his hands up in a placating gesture before Eddie can even argue with him. “I  _ know _ you don’t want to, but you’re  _ really _ sick, Eddie. It’s important for you to have a chance to make choices about your health without someone else’s interference. I know you hate it,” he reiterates. “But do you even have any clue what’s wrong with you?”

“I have asthma. Well, I have  _ something _ wrong with my lungs from when I was sick as a kid, and I had an inhaler to deal with the asthma, but when I stopped using it and taking my medication it made my lungs deteriorate more. I get infections really easily because there’s something wrong with my immune system. And I have a  _ lot _ of allergies. Those can get real bad if you’re not careful with them, and make you sick like  _ this.” _ He gestures at himself. The itchy redness has broken out across his forehead, too.

“What are you  _ actually _ allergic to, Eddie?” Stan demands. “I’ve seen you roll around in dirt and grass without so much as sneezing a bit.”

Eddie’s defiance returns tenfold. “Penicillin for sure,” he insists, starting to count off on his fingers. “Penicillin definitely almost killed me when I was little. And pollen, dust, nuts, soy, shellfish -- most meat, too -- and I get sun rash really easily, which is why  _ this _ keeps happening.” He points at his face. “And that’s just, like, scratching the surface.”

Eddie is the only person sitting at their table who can’t sense the apprehension that ripples through them all as they consider the point Stan and Mike are so obviously trying to make. 

Sonia’s notorious for lying to him by now. The C-word isn’t off the table, it’s just been withheld from Eddie’s knowledge like everything else wrong with him.

It just seems too unlikely, to all of them, that he could manage over a year without taking any of the fake crap pills his mom used to give to him, and then  _ suddenly _ start developing symptoms of some kind of bullshit illnesses out of the blue.

Richie doesn’t know what conclusions, exactly, he should draw from that, but he knows it’s suspicious enough that it sets off the other Losers, too.

She knows something about Eddie’s health that he doesn’t, and she isn’t giving him all the necessary information because-- because she’s  _ psycho. _ She’s controlling and possessive and all-around fucking crazy and she treats Eddie like a  _ thing _ instead of a person and…

And everyone who can read his thoughts and sense his anger is turning to look at him because he can’t keep it under control.

_ ‘Sorry,’ _ he says quickly, trying to rein it in. 

There’s a pressure against his upper arm as Eddie tips forward against him, breathing heavily, and he can’t help the little gasp it tears out of him. “Jesus  _ Christ, _ Eddie, you’re burning up!”

“I know,” Eddie mumbles. He doesn’t lift his head. Richie feels like someone is trying to  _ brand _ him with how hot Eddie’s skin is.

“Okay, that’s it. You’re going home.” Richie starts collecting his belongings from the table and shoving them into his bag. 

“Can’t.” Eddie’s fingers curl around his forearm to keep himself upright as he’s jostled around. “We have exams soon.”

“Well, you can’t very well write exams when you’re dead, can you?” Richie demands with a little too much bite.

For once, Eddie doesn’t bite back. He pulls his gaze away from Richie and directs it somewhere else entirely. It makes a horrible pit open up in Richie’s chest, swallowing the anger and fear and frustration and leaving him empty, and he’s as gentle as possible when he helps Eddie stand up from the bench. 

He’s shivering. 

A couple of their friends make to stand, too, but Richie gives a sharp shake of his head to stop them. He has this handled. To the best of his ability, at least. 

He  _ can _ help Eddie with this much.

“We’ll get the study notes for your afternoon classes, okay?” Mike offers, and Eddie mumbles a semi-coherent “thank you” as he wobbles away from the table, holding onto Richie for support.

They make their slow way to Eddie’s locker, only passing a few stray students who have chosen to study for exams in the halls instead of fighting with the din of the cafeteria. Richie has Eddie’s lock combo memorized, naturally (most of the Losers can break into each other’s lockers with ease at this point), and he’s already loading textbooks into his backpack for him before Eddie can protest.

Eddie tries to take the bag from him and makes a  _ face _ when Richie slings it over his own shoulder, the kind that says he’s starting to get  _ genuinely _ pissed. 

“Look,” Richie says carefully as he closes his locker and starts leading him down the hall again. “I’m sorry. Like,  _ really _ sorry. I’m sorry I said that. And I’m-- I’m sorry that everything sucks such huge balls right now.” He takes a couple slow breaths to keep himself calm, because his dumb traitorous body is so strung out from stress by this point that it takes everything in him not to scream or cry or  _ something _ to relieve some of it. “It’s just… You gotta understand that I-- that  _ we--” _

“I’ve thought about it,” Eddie tells him between puffs on his inhaler. “Dying. You’re not the only one.”

“I’m sorry,” Richie tries to say again, even though it isn’t  _ quite _ what he  _ wants _ to say, or quite the right thing, but Eddie cuts him off anyway.

“But I don’t want to think about it anymore, alright? And I especially don’t wanna talk about it. Not… not right now, at least. Okay? Can you give me that much?”

“Yeah,” Richie says after a long stretch of silence that he spends controlling his breathing. “Yeah, of course I can, Eds. I’m sorry.”

Eddie flashes him a wobbly smile and the world seems to right itself a little, though it’s thrown back out of whack when they get to the parking lot and Richie spots the bright yellow spray paint on the windows of his poor car. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he mutters. 

Once again, Victor Criss has proven himself to be an absolute bastard on top of being a dangerous menace, and the slurs covering his windows are probably just the icing on some kind of fucked-up cake. 

He’s almost  _ positive _ that one of these days he’s going to wake up to Criss breaking into his house with a fucking  _ gun, _ or the maniac is gonna figure out some way to make a car bomb and end Richie’s life in one final, gory spectacle like  _ that. _

“Oh,” Eddie says from where he’s tucked against Richie’s side. “Jesus. I’m sorry, Richie,” he adds, like it’s somehow  _ his _ fault Criss is stalking them and vandalizing Richie’s car. Like it’s  _ his _ fault the word  _ FAGGOT _ is spray-painted across Richie’s windshield, and not  _ Richie’s _ for being-- well, for being a faggot. 

“It’s fine. It’s a better alternative to getting stabbed to death in my sleep, right?” Richie jokes, and Eddie goes all tense against him.

“That’s not funny, Richie.”

“No, it isn’t.” But at least Richie has a direct line to help in his head, a luxury Eddie no longer possesses, and that only adds to Richie’s stress. “I can still drive her, though. That shithead wasn’t smart enough to block my view. He’s probably waiting to jump me if I walk home. Joke’s on him. I’ll run him down if I see him.”

_ “Richie,” _ Eddie chastises, squeezing at his arm. “That isn’t  _ funny. _ You could seriously get hurt.”

Richie wraps an arm around Eddie’s shoulders to envelope him in a half-hug and smacks a wet kiss to his feverish forehead. “I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself,” he says lightly as he opens the passenger-side door, where more nasty words in vibrant paint cover the window. 

Besides, he thinks (and is grateful Eddie can’t see into his head), in a few weeks they’ll have dealt with the source of Criss’s apparent insanity, and they won’t have to worry about it ever again.

Hopefully.

There are a  _ lot _ of variables to consider, and a  _ lot _ of different potential outcomes.

Somewhere between arriving at school and now, he forgot that they had Queen’s  _ Jazz _ tape in the player with the volume cranked on their way in this morning. When he starts the car, it’s to a blast of sound that makes the speakers whine in protest as the chorus of “Fat Bottomed Girls” explodes out of them. 

In the relative solemnity of the day, it’s startling, to say the least. Richie fumbles for the volume control and twists it, eyes bugging out of his head. “Jesus,” he says. “Shit. I’m so sorry. Oh my god.” 

Eddie usually reminds him to turn the volume down when they get out of the car so this exact thing doesn’t happen. One of these days he’s going to give himself a heart attack.

More concerningly, he might  _ actually _ give Eddie a heart attack. It doesn’t look like it’ll take much to make his poor heart give out.

“I’m so sorry,” he says again, but Eddie just dissolves into a fit of laughter that ends with his inhaler clamped between his teeth. 

“It’s--” Eddie wheezes. “It’s fine. You can turn it back up.”

“Oh, Eds,” Richie starts, less panicked now that his heart rate has returned to something resembling normalcy. “And damage your eardrums? You’ll go deaf listening to music that loud. What would your mother say?”

He turns the volume back up anyway, loud enough to rattle the vandalized windows, bobbing his head along to the beat as he pulls out of the parking lot. This isn’t going to be another one of their reckless joyrides. He’s genuinely concerned with getting Eddie home and into bed.

But that doesn’t mean they can’t  _ enjoy _ the ride. 

He makes a display of singing along, off-key and so loud it makes his throat ache, until Eddie’s laughing again and making breathless attempts at joining him.

He tries not to think about how it doesn’t matter if Eddie listens to music loud enough to make him go deaf, or how he’s probably going to be alone in his room in their house in Portland. Even if Eddie  _ does _ come with them, Richie still sees a future where the other bed in the room is empty and untouched. 

Eventually, he’s going to lose this. 

The urge to reach out and capture Eddie’s hand in his own burns through him. He wants to intertwine their fingers and drag his thumb across the back of Eddie’s hand. Pull him close and press kisses to his knuckles. 

He can’t, and he shouldn’t.

Not yet, at least. Not in Derry. 

If things go awry, it’s safer for them to go awry elsewhere. Somewhere it isn’t so easy to target him.

Somewhere Victor Criss can’t break into his house and stick nails in his eyes as punishment for his sins, or whatever the fuck. 

He doesn’t grab Eddie’s hand. That’s too much. Too forward. Too obvious. He’s pushing his luck with the amount of physical affection he already showers Eddie with. 

At Eddie’s request, he drops him off at home and then drives around the block to park his car where Sonia won’t spot it on her way in, if she comes back early. He does a half-jog back to Eddie’s house, fully expecting to find him collapsed in the entryway or something.

Instead, he’s just coming down the stairs, having changed into a pyjama set, when Richie bursts through the front door.

Alive and breathing. 

Richie heaves a quiet sigh of relief.

The phone rings in the kitchen.

“Oh, shit,” Eddie grumbles, already hobbling over to grab it. “Hello?” he says, then: “Yeah, I just woke up. I came down for something to eat.”

There’s a beat of silence while Eddie opens the fridge, phone cord stretching across the kitchen behind him, and Richie finds himself holding his breath as if Sonia will sense his presence through the telephone. 

“Yeah, I see it... Yeah, yeah, I took them when I got up... I feel okay. Just tired.” Eddie rolls his eyes pointedly towards Richie, who’s standing frozen in the kitchen doorway, waiting to get caught trespassing. “Yes, mommy, I’ll eat it, I promise... I love you, too.”

He hangs up the phone and takes a container of rice out of the fridge to pop it in the microwave. “Wanna watch TV? I don’t think I’m gonna be much entertainment today, sorry.”

“No need to apologize, Eds. I’m  _ very _ good at playing  _ The Price Is Right. _ I’ll be plenty entertained.”

They settle onto the couch while Eddie picks at the rice, nibbling tiny spoonfuls and making faces all the while. 

“No  _ way _ that barbecue is worth that much fucking money. Is she insane?” Richie demands of the television while Eddie pretends to eat.

“It’s the one with the propane hookup. It might actually be worth that much,” Eddie says with a shrug. He holds the rice out to Richie. “Do you want the rest of this?” 

He’s barely made a dent in it.

“You don’t have to feed me, y’know. You gotta eat lots so you can get some meat on those bones.” He pinches at the knobby protrusion of Eddie’s wrist and earns himself a scowl. 

But he didn’t finish the granola bar earlier, and Richie doubts he ate breakfast, and he’s trying  _ really hard _ not to think about loneliness in the very, very near future. 

“I don’t want the rest. My stomach is upset. And she checks the garbage to make sure I ate everything. You don’t  _ have _ to, but you can eat it if you want it, ‘cause I’m not going to.”

Richie takes the container from him. “If it saves you from getting in trouble, then of course, my liege,” he says with feigned reverence, raising the rice like a chalice and deeply inclining his head.

“You’re ridiculous.” Richie can hear the smile in his voice.

“‘Ridiculous’ is my middle name, shweetheart,” Richie says in his spot-on Humphrey Bogart Voice, winking playfully.

Eddie pinches his side. “Your middle name is Leslie, you nerd.”

“Oh, my sincerest apologies,” he gasps, all high-pitched and falsely distraught. “I’ve committed a terrible misdeed by lying! Oh, oh, whatever shall I do? I’ll be shunned by my dearest friend for this behaviour, for absolute certain!” Richie throws an arm across his face and pretends to swoon, dropping his weight onto Eddie, giving careful attention to not actually crushing him.

Eddie pinches him harder even as he tries to stifle a laugh. “You’re such a shit!”

“Thank you! I was beginning to think no one had noticed!” Richie delights in his own voice.

There’s probably no better feeling on the whole planet than making Eddie laugh. It feels like he’s made of sunshine and fucking  _ rainbows _ inside.

Until, of course, Eddie’s scrambling for his inhaler again because he’s triggered… whatever it is that’s wrong with his lungs. Asthma. Not-asthma. Old damage from old illnesses.

New damage from new illnesses.

Who even knows anymore. 

Richie finishes off the rice for him. The plum sauce, or whatever it is that’s mixed with it, is especially bitter, not like the kind his mom buys, but he perseveres in case Eddie really  _ does _ get in trouble for not finishing his food.

And why  _ make _ him finish it, knowing he’s just gonna be throwing it up again later, anyway? He should know what he can handle. He should know better than Sonia how much he can eat without getting sick.

Though it should probably be a little more than he’s had  _ today. _

_ The Price Is Right _ ends and Richie picks up the remote. “What’s next, Spaghetti Man? Your choice.”

Eddie doesn’t answer. He’s tipped back against the couch cushions, mouth hanging open as he dozes. The rash on his face has faded slightly.

Richie presses a wrist to his forehead to find his temperature isn’t as concerning as it was earlier.

He doesn’t wake up even when Richie nudges his shoulder a few times, too exhausted to be roused. 

“Alright, fine,” Richie says aloud, worming his arms under Eddie’s knees and shoulders to lift him. “You brought this upon yourself.”

Eddie doesn’t answer him. His head just lolls against Richie’s shoulder and Richie’s heart kicks it up double-time.

He deposits Eddie on his bed and climbs in beside him after a moment’s hesitation, bundling the covers around them and sliding down to rest his head on the pillow. Eddie sleeps on, undisturbed by the movement.

In a reckless display of courage, he takes Eddie’s hand in his own and laces their fingers together. He stays like that until he’s  _ really _ pushing his luck on getting out of there before Sonia gets home.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says quietly as he extracts himself from under the blankets. He puts  _ conviction _ into it. Tries to make it a promise on both ends even though Eddie is sleeping like a rock. He  _ will _ see Eddie tomorrow, because he needs Eddie to wake up in the morning feeling  _ better. _ He needs Eddie to defy his mom (his greatest talent, it seems like) and go to school against her wishes again. He needs him to be okay.

When he gets home, he has to spend an hour in the driveway scrubbing spray paint off his poor car. By the time he’s done, save a few yellow streaks still stubbornly clinging to the windows, he finds he wants nothing more than to lie down again.

The  _ only _ bright side of any of this is that Criss hasn’t come leaping out of the hedges to stab him or anything.

_ Yet.  _

He very well still could, as Richie disposes of the ruined sponges and dumps the buckets of soapy water down the sewer grate in front of the neighbour’s house. 

He’s  _ aching _ as he kicks off his shoes in the foyer and trudges up to his room. Not even just in his body. There’s an ugly fear that’s settled in his chest that refuses to go away, pressing on his heart until it struggles to beat at all.

Richie grabs the Professor Maturin puppet off his nightstand as he flops down onto the bed. It’s getting old. The seams are wearing. One of its legs is starting to come loose. 

"Well?" he demands, staring right into its shiny black button eyes like he can talk to the  _ real _ Maturin through this thing like a conduit. "Aren't you supposed to have all the answers?" 

Not unexpectedly, the felt puppet doesn't answer back. 

Richie slips his hand into the hole in it's back to make it move its mouth. The seams strain. Just like he outgrows his clothes every few months, the little puppet Eddie took the time and care to sew for him is too small now.

"Not  _ all _ the answers, son," he says in a careful imitation of that low, echoing, hollow voice he can't forget. Like the vacuum of space. Like television static. "Just the ones that are convenient for me. I'm a god. We speak in riddles and cryptic bullshit. It's kind of our gimmick."

"Send me some kind of cryptic dream to decode, then," Richie says to the puppet -- to himself, or to the conduit, maybe. "I think I'm running out of time, here."

He traces a thumb over one of the eyes. It's coming loose, too, a little bit at a time. He won't be able to keep it intact forever, no matter how hard he tries.

All things die. All things come to an end. All things fall apart eventually. Snap at the seams or crumble to pieces or lose a vital element, a piece of a whole. 

His stomach churns and aches. Anxiety must be wreaking havoc on his guts. 

They have to do  _ something. _ They have to get rid of It, once and for all. Maybe he shouldn't be waiting for a riddle to solve, or a prophetic dream, or guidance from something so much bigger than the seven of them. 

Maybe he should take the initiative. Drag everyone down into the sewers with him tonight. They can steal the gun from Bill's dad again. They can make up more silver bullets -- Ben still has at least one silver dollar tucked away somewhere.

They can go get Bev and they can finish the job for good. He'll carry Eddie on his back if he has to. He doesn't even have to  _ fight. _ They just need him there. They just need to be  _ whole _ for this to work. The complete Lucky Seven.

His stomach twists again, aching and hot.

It isn't just anxiety that's making him feel sick.

He actually feels  _ sick. _ He bolts out of bed, tossing the puppet somewhere behind him as he races to the washroom just in time to upchuck into the toilet.

_ Great, _ he thinks bitterly as he vomits more half-digested rice into the toilet bowl. He must have caught whatever Eddie is sick with this time, and if  _ Eddie _ didn't get  _ him _ sick, then it's probably gonna be his fault when Eddie ends up out of commission for a few days again.

He gets sick too easily. It makes Richie  _ scared. _

More scared, even, than he is of  _ It, _ or of being outed, or of the graffiti inside the Kissing Bridge. 

He spends the better part of an hour hunched over on the washroom floor, and by the time his mom comes home he’s fully convinced he’s going to die, until she presses the back of her hand to his face and neck and tells him he’s just picked up a stomach bug.

She forces him into bed with a sleeve of soda crackers and a can of ginger ale on his nightstand, and an old plastic pail on the floor nearby. “Sleep it off, honey,” she says as she kisses his burning forehead despite the risk of catching whatever this is from him. “I’ll be back to check on you in a bit, okay?”

He mumbles something that might be an affirmative as he curls up under the covers, sweating despite how much he’s shivering. Professor Maturin is still resting on his pillow and he grabs it in one trembling hand to hold tight as he struggles to sleep.

*

Richie wakes up to thumping outside his window -- his  _ second-storey window. _

There’s a  _ figure _ out there, a dark, solid shape amongst the gnarled branches of the half-dead weeping willow that takes up a good chunk of the backyard and obscures most of his view. Hands, breaching the small gap where the window is propped open to let some cool air in. He sits upright in bed, fumbling for his glasses as if they’re going to help him see who the  _ fuck _ is breaking into his house any better in the pitch-black, cloudy night.

It doesn’t help any that he’s just woken up from a nightmare, one of those that have been plaguing him for  _ weeks, _ increasing in intensity every night, and he can’t guarantee this isn’t just  _ another one. _

He also can’t guarantee it isn’t Victor Criss come to finally murder him.

The window slides open and a shadow that’s thin and lanky (and clumsy as all fuck) topples into his room. His heart settles down in his throat when Bill’s voice finally reaches him through the deep-sleep haze he’s just breaking out of, expletives pouring forth as he picks himself up from the pile of dirty laundry he landed in.

Richie flicks on the bedside lamp.

“Richie! Jesus  _ Christ, _ I’ve been trying to reach you for, like, a fucking  _ hour!” _

“I was asleep,” Richie says dumbly, wondering loudly what the hell could possibly be so urgent that it warrants a visit at -- he squints at the red LED numbers on the alarm clock -- two-thirty in the fucking morning. Then, as Bill gets closer, wondering  _ why _ the hell he looks drawn and pale and smells like vomit.

_ ‘I had a dream,’  _ Bill tells him agitatedly, while Richie regards him with semi-conscious caution and says, “So? Big Bill, I hate to break it to you, but  _ everyone _ gets those,” if only to make himself feel better about the frantic black mass pulsating in the bond that only the two of them are awake to feel, and the knot of nerves growing in his gut. 

This does _not_ make Bill smile. His eyes are _wild._ _“Richie,”_ he breathes, strained, his far-away gaze focusing on Richie with a _snap_ only they can hear. His hands drag through his reddish hair until it’s even _more_ of a disaster, somehow, and he swallows several times before he can continue -- he tries to tell Richie using the shine but nothing’s coming out right, that tar-like fear drowning him and trying to sweep Richie away with it, until his heart is beating in time with Bill’s and he’s just on the cusp of knowing what’s coming and just on the verge of begging him not to tell him, just spare him from _knowing--_ “I-I-I… I think he’s gonna duh-_die.”_ And just like that, he dissolves into tears. Richie tries to process while he cradles his leader-hero-_friend_ in his arms and strokes his hair, pressing it back into place, the black and sticky fear in the shine catching on his limbs and dragging him into its terrible current.

He doesn’t have to ask Bill to elaborate. That’s the worst part, probably. Just that one sentence was enough. He knows exactly who he’s talking about and  _ why. _

If the shine says so, what power do they have to prevent it?

And he  _ knew, _ of course he  _ knew _ \-- they all did, in some way -- but he was at least naive enough to be able to  _ pretend, _ before now. He could have convinced himself that things would be okay up until the moment he lost that part of himself, if he tried hard enough. 

He’s been beating the knowledge back from intruding on his conscious thought with everything he has to offer, and he fights harder every time it manages to slip through. 

He wanted to just  _ lie to himself _ a tiny bit longer.

His hands shake. It starts off small and then he’s all but seizing as he clings to Bill, who’s preemptively mourning a significant piece of his life, his heart, his  _ mind. _

Richie can’t do this. He thinks maybe he’s been split open, ribs cracked wide, cement poured in the wound to crush his heart and his lungs until he’s forced to give up, fighting his fate all the way. He thinks maybe he’s dead already. There’s no way to function like this. His breathing is rattling and too-quick, burning him from the inside-out, and isn’t this how Eddie feels when--?

The tears come all at once and then it’s Bill’s turn to try to comfort _him,_ sliding his glasses off his face and curling around him bodily, which is a feat considering Richie is _rapidly_ outgrowing him. There’s a lot happening _inside,_ a thousand questions fighting for a turn, a heartache that pierces so deep he doesn’t think he’ll _ever_ shake it, no matter the answers. _Right now? Soon? _**_When?_** **_How?_**_ How do you _**_know?_**_ What’s going to happen? What can we do? Is it because he’s sick? Is it because of the Turtle? Because of _**_It?_**

_ _ ** _Why?_ **

_ ‘Richie,’ _ Bills says once again, quiet in the bond despite the roaring beast of their shared fear-grief-heartbreak.  _ ‘Oh my God, Richie.’ _ And when he draws back to look Richie in the eye, he’s  _ haunted.  _ “I-- I think she’s  _ poisoning _ him.”

It takes a few seconds, but Richie goes rigid a little bit at a time as the pieces fall into place, shaking ceasing, then leans over the edge of his bed and pukes on the floor, entirely missing the bucket his mom left in here exclusively for that purpose.

That makes sense.

That makes… terrible, awful, confusing sense. 

It  _ does, _ and Richie knows with a sudden and resounding certainty that he’s presently experiencing the  _ proof _ of that claim, because what he’s suffering from isn’t any  _ stomach bug. _

It makes  _ sense _ but Richie doesn’t know how to wrap his head around it, not  _ really, _ and before understanding or acceptance or anything else, he just jumps right into a loop of  _ ‘How could she how could she how  _ ** _dare_ ** _ she  _ ** _how could she--’_ **

*

  
  


Eddie won’t be at school today. He called Richie and apologized, whispering through the phone so his mom wouldn’t overhear.

He sounded tired. 

Richie still doesn’t think he, himself, has quite recovered from last night’s ordeal. Not just in the sense that he’s still running a fever, or that he couldn’t keep his breakfast down this morning.

_ (How soon?) _

The knowledge that something is going to  _ happen _ if they don’t put an end to this ASAP is eating away at him.

_ (How can we stop it?) _

They meet on Bill’s front lawn with tired eyes and no pretense of attempted cheerfulness, and Mike, despite not  _ knowing, _ seems to understand that something has passed between them -- and maybe (though Richie hopes it isn’t true, for Mike’s sake) he’s got an inkling about the anguish that awaits them in the near future -- because he abandons his bike to drag them both into a hug and tell them  _ ‘It’s gonna be okay,’ _ even though it  _ isn’t, _ and  _ ‘You don’t have to tell me, but I’m here for you if you need it.’ _

Richie’s amazed, in some ways, that Bill is able to hide this from Mike, just as he’s amazed with  _ himself _ for hiding it from  _ anyone. _

_ (Because we’re going to fucking fix this if it kills us) _

“We gotta talk. Once-- once we’re together.”

_ ‘We should meet at the clubhouse,’ _ Bill suggests to everyone, pressing the urgency firm into the emotion behind the thought.  _ ‘Fuck school. We have to deal with this.’ _

There’s a clamour as everyone demands to know what “this” entails, exactly, and why it’s worth skipping school, but they shut up real quick when Bill and Richie assure them that it’s  _ Eddie _ they need to talk about.

Richie knows just as well as Bill that they can easily have this conversation right now, in their heads. They can just broadcast the problem to the other Losers and be done with it.

But this is something that  _ needs _ to be said in person. They need to process it together and come up with solutions  _ together. _

They need to argue the point that Bill is just having weird crazy stress nightmares as a group, where maybe Richie can feel a little reassured by everyone’s insistence that such a thing is  _ impossible. _ That Sonia Kaspbrak is so obsessed with her son’s health and safety that the idea that she might be...  _ doing that _ is unfathomable. 

She used to drag him to the hospital for colds and low-grade fevers, no matter how much he kicked and screamed. She couldn’t possibly do something like  _ that. _

The scary thing is, Richie wouldn’t put it past her. 

She  _ hurt _ him once. She could do it again. 

There’s something sinister in her eyes whenever Richie has the misfortune of encountering her. Bev swore up and down that something bad was going on with her  _ years _ ago, but relented that it might have just been her own past clouding her judgment. 

Maybe she wasn’t wrong. Maybe her judgment  _ wasn’t _ clouded.

Maybe Sonia really is the kind of person who poisons her kid to-- to what? Teach him some kind of lesson? 

Richie feels sick again. 

He wants to rush straight over to Eddie’s house and bust him out of there. He  _ could. _ But he wants to be  _ wrong, _ so he holds back and holds out hope and waits until they’re all gathered, tense and waiting, in their underground clubhouse. 

Richie  _ knows _ beyond a shadow of a doubt that Bill is right about this. He’s still battling the aftereffects of the tainted food he ate. 

He can only imagine what eating that whole meal would have done to Eddie. 

But pretending just feels easier right now.

_ ‘I’ve been having nightmares,’ _ Bill says by way of explanation -- of easing them into it like he didn’t do with Richie. There’s a tense silence all around them as everyone listens with apprehension filling the clubhouse. Even all the way in Portland, Bev’s locked herself in her room with excuses of illness because the issue demanded her full attention. 

Impatience prickles through Richie’s skin.

He wants them to be fixing this  _ yesterday. _

He wants the problem to not exist at all.

He wants to be wrong.

_ ‘I couldn’t really  _ ** _remember_ ** _ any of them until last night, and I don’t think they were nightmares so much as… as  _ ** _warnings,_ ** _ maybe. Or some kind of intuition. But…’ _

Here Bill looks to Richie, who’s vibrating where he sits with mounting restlessness and who can’t stop himself from blurting, aloud and through the shine, “Eddie’s mom is poisoning him.”

He watches shock and disbelief register on his friends’ faces and throws his hands up to stop them from denying that Sonia Kaspbrak would ever do such a thing. “I think Bill’s right because I ate the lunch his mom made for him yesterday and I was sick all night. Fuck, I’m  _ still _ sick. I feel like someone hit me with a fucking bus.”

_ ‘That… that could just be a coincidence,’ _ Mike tries.

“I’m  _ positive _ that I’m right about this. I  _ know, _ okay?” Bill says, almost apologetically. It isn’t exactly good news they’re sharing, after all. “I don’t  _ want _ to be, but I know what I saw. He’s going to die if we don’t  _ do _ something.”

“We have to get him out of there, obviously,” Richie interjects before anyone else can speak. “I mean,  _ fuck, _ you guys, we should be busting him out  _ right now.” _

_ ‘You have to convince him to leave, first,’ _ Bev says suddenly, hollow and far away.  _ ‘You have to convince him that’s what’s happening.’ _

The sound of her laughter echoes, bitter, back through the shine at them.

_ ‘God,’ _ she says humourlessly,  _ ‘he’s such a stubborn asshole.’ _

_ ‘Oh, c’mon, Bev, he  _ ** _has_ ** _ to believe this. It’s  _ ** _obvious_ ** _ that’s what’s wrong with him now that we know it’s even a possibility. Why the fuck else would she be so secretive about his health?’ _

_ ‘You have to get him out of there as soon as possible, Rich, but you have to tread lightly, because one wrong move is gonna fuck the whole thing up. It’s hard to know who to trust when--’ _ Bev cuts herself off and there’s a momentary silence between the six of them.  _ ‘Don’t make unsubstantiated accusations, okay? If you can get proof, show it to him. Ease him into it. The last thing you want to do is get him worked up. But get him  _ ** _away_ ** _ from her. Just find a way to get him somewhere  _ ** _safe.’_ **

Richie  _ will. _ If it’s the last thing he ever fucking does, he’s going to get Eddie out of that house.

* * *


End file.
